


Fear

by hobbywriting



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU - Avengers use therapy and communicate, Angst, Bisexual Foggy, Bucky and Sam are Bronies, But that's background, Childhood Trauma, Clint is a Walking Disaster, Eating Disorders, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Look Matt has a lot of issues, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt has Sensory Processing Disorder, Medical Inaccuracies, Mental Health Issues, Mutism, Natasha has strong feelings about books, Not Season 2 Compliant, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Regression, Rape Recovery, Realistic outcomes of trauma, Recovery, Sam stress bakes, Self-Harm, Speech Disorders, Stimming, Suicidal Thoughts, Team as Family, but he tries, drugged Matt conversations, fear wetting (chapter 45), grown men cuddle, law inaccuracies, matt murdock gets so many hugs, parts could be read as ageplay, possible autistic Matt, possible psychological regresson, possibly, ptsd assistance dog lucky, science / computer nerd Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 64
Words: 445,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5744227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbywriting/pseuds/hobbywriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shower is cold.<br/>Water taps a comforting melody around him. Matt follows each drop as it plunks on the plastic floor, splitting open. The scent of soap and chemicals surround him. It’s better than the blood.<br/>He can’t remember why he’s here.</p><p>Matt goes out to patrol as daredevil and comes back injured. Injuries are a fact of life. He should heal, shake it off, get back to normal. It's not like this doesn't happen to other people. He can handle it.<br/>Except, he can't. The more he tries to push through, the more he ends up sinking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The shower is cold.

Water taps a comforting melody around him. Matt follows each drop as it plunks on the plastic floor, splitting open. The scent of soap and chemicals surround him. It’s better than the blood.

He can’t remember why he’s here.

His body shudders. It’s a constant thing. The cold, he remembers. He’s shivering because the shower is cold. He’s been shivering for hours.

He takes a deep breath, flavoured with water, rust from the pipes, shampoos, conditioner, every type of soap he owns. Under it all there’s still the tang of blood.

Taking a shower after a night protecting people. That must be it. That’s why he’s here. And all his hot water is gone. It’s been gone for a while. He’s cold so he needs to get up, dry off, go to bed. He understands now.

He presses a hand to the floor, barely feeling the rough dots on the bottom of the shower. His fingers are numb. How long has he been here?

It’s disconcerting not to know the answer. He left the office yesterday. He remembers that. He made a joke before leaving. It made Foggy laugh. He can’t remember what the joke was, or why it was funny.

Pushing himself to his feet, he almost falls when the pain grips him. It stabs at his ribs, cuts up his insides, wraps a vice around his shoulder and squeezes. He makes it. He doesn’t know how. The water pummels his face and shoulder. Each drop is like a fist. Reaching out a hand, he turns it off.

So he came back from the office and went out patrolling. He scrabbles for the memory, and can’t find it. But that must be what happened. That’s why he hurts.

The towels are where he expects them to be. Grabbing one, he wraps it loosely around his waist, then grabs another. It’s a difficult operation only using one hand, and he can’t use the other because…because…it’s curled up to his chest. It doesn’t want to move. Fear pricks the back of his throat when he thinks about making it move.

Chilled air greets him outside the bathroom. A breeze. He left the window open when he came in? Why? He always closes it.

Every step sends a jolt of pain through him. It’s like a gunshot from the base of his spine to the back of his throat. It hurts. It hurts so much. Dismissing the idea of closing the window, he trails the wall to his bedroom. Silk sheets, soft mattress. Relief.

Breath escapes his lungs in painful gasps by the time he makes it to his bed. His body shivers with cold, quivers with exhaustion. Searing heat coils in his belly, stabbing him with every movement.

He collapses onto his mattress, then gasps in pain. Bright agony flares up his insides. He can’t breathe. He can’t-

“Foggy, Foggy, Foggy.”

Matt startles. The sound blares next to him. The phone. He’d set it on the bedside table before he went out on patrol. What is Foggy doing calling so late? It must be important.

He bites back another gasp of pain as he fumbles for the phone. His ribs flare. His insides tell him that every position he sits in is the wrong one. The world is tinted with agony. Why didn’t he call Claire? He always calls Claire if it’s this bad.

“Hey Matt. Are you even there?”

His body lists against the pillow. The phone is to his ear. He gets the feeling Foggy’s been talking for a while.

“Foggy?” The word leaves his mouth as a horse croak. It doesn’t sound like his voice.

“Jesus Matty, you sound terrible. Did you wake up with a cold?”

A cold, no. He is cold, still shivering, but he’s not sick. Is he sick? “No.”

“You sure bud? You sound like death.”

“I-” he wants to say he feels like death, but Foggy would worry. He should work out what’s wrong before he tells Foggy. Maybe Claire will know. “Why you calling? It’s late.” It hurts to talk.

A pause. Too long. “Matty, it’s nine thirty in the morning. I called to ask why you weren’t at work yet.”

Nine thirty. That’s impossible. He’s usually back from patrol by three. A quick shower, then a few hours of sleep before work. How long was he in that shower? “I-I-I can come.”

“No buddy, you stay right there. OK? Don’t move. I’ll be there in twenty.” Concern floods his friend’s voice.

Matt tries to gather up words that will make that concern go away. He can’t find them. All the words are gone. Then he registers the line is dead.

Water drips from his damp skin. He shivers. Clothes. He should get dressed before Foggy comes.

It’s like moving underwater. He scrubs at his chest with the second towel, legs, head. Pain dances along the left side of his skull. The towel drops to the floor. Blood fills the air again. For a moment he just breathes.

He stumbles into the sweatpants, pulling them up with his one hand. The undershirt is harder. He coaxes his curled up arm through the hole first, then his head, then his good arm. It’s only when it’s on that he realises he should’ve just slid on his zip up hoodie instead.

“Jesus.”

Matt snaps his head around. The scent of strawberry shampoo and Foggy drifts from the doorway to the bedroom. He hadn’t noticed him come in.

“Hey Matty.” Foggy walks close. His heartbeat speeds in his chest. Scared. He’s scared. His sharp footsteps stop by the bed. “You’re all wet.”

Matt frowns. Right. He’d forgotten to finish drying himself off. “Had.” It’s hard to breathe. “Had a shower.”

“Which is totally on the list of things to do after you get beaten half to death. Way before medical treatment.” The shuffle of clothing. Foggy leaning down. “Let’s have a look at you.”

What does he look like? He hasn’t thought to check. How badly hurt is he. Lots of cuts and bruises. His ribs are cracked, not broken. And his arm - his arm.

Foggy must see it because his heartbeat jumps. The click of buttons. A phone. Ringing.

“Hello?” A female voice. Not happy. Claire.

“I can see his bone. It’s like sticking out. What do I do?”

Claire’s voice turns alert. “Has it broken the skin?”

“No. It’s just bulging out under his skin. His forearm. Whatever that bone’s called. His fingers look plenty mashed up too. So does most of the rest of him.”

Matt focuses his ears. He can hear the bones in his arm grind. Two of his fingers too. Something’s off about his knuckle. And his shoulder. The shoulder blade. A small fracture. Hairline. His stomach turns over.

The sound of fingers clicking in front of his face brings him back. Foggy. “Come on buddy, work with me here. Tell me your name.”

Name. His name. It stumbles out of his mouth. “Matt Murdock.”

“And who am I?”

Easy one. “Foggy.”

“Who’s the president?”

“Obama.”

“What day is it?”

He blinks. Yesterday he went into work. Today he was supposed to go into work. So it’s a weekday. Yesterday was? Yesterday was Tuesday. They were looking forward to today, Wednesday. It’s the day they always stay late and eat takeout together. “Wednesday.”

“Took a while for that one buddy,” Foggy says, heart beating out a stanza of worry, worry, worry.

Footsteps walk away. Foggy’s voice talks but he can’t make out what he’s saying. Matt doesn’t understand.

A hand grips his good arm. He flinches.

“Hey buddy.” Foggy’s voice. “Come on, up we get. The cab’s downstairs. Let’s get you to the hospital.”

Dread fills his lungs, and there’s no room to breathe. “No hospital. Can’t.”

“We just talked about this buddy. The only way that bone is going back in place is surgery. And the only place you’re getting surgery is a hospital. Now, unless you think daredevil can run around blind and one armed…”

Matt doesn’t remember talking about it, but he doesn’t remember Foggy having time to call a cab either. Something is wrong. He’s losing big chunks of everything. He doesn’t remember allowing himself to be dragged along, but he finds himself in the cab anyway.

***

The world is muffled. It should be a relief, but it isn’t. Short sharp spikes break through the haze. He can’t tell when they’re going to come, or where from. The stench of dying from someone in a nearby room. A scream. A loud scrape as a trolley veers into a wall. The smash of glass. Yelling. The grating of his bones under the doctor’s fingers.

The bones scrape into a place that has the doctor satisfied. They talk a while, over him, sometimes to him. Then they wrap his arm.

Later he tries to focus on the smell of drying plaster, and not the bleach that seems to be everywhere. They’re in a small room. One uncomfortable bed. One chair for Foggy to sit in. Another for Claire to ignore as she paces.

“Twenty minutes buddy.” Foggy’s hand grips his good shoulder. He’s been counting down every procedure since they got here however many hours ago. It’s the only thing that’s kept Matt sane. This is the last one. Twenty minutes. The plaster dries, then they get to go home.

Under the plaster his arm is a numb mess from the local. He tries not to think about it.

Claire’s feet stop pacing. “You know we didn’t have a choice Matt.”

“He knows.” Foggy’s hand is soothing on his shoulder. “It’ll be fine. The doctor bought the stairs story. His arm is fixed, his stitches look beautiful. Matt Murdock survives another day.”

There’s a woman crying three rooms away.

“The doctor bought the story because he’s an uncaring asshole.” Claire starts pacing again, stops. “What you need to understand Matt is I can’t fix everything. There’s no way I could put that bone back in place without a goddamn xray machine and a whole lot of training I don’t have! I did my best. I got the doctor who wouldn’t pry to take your case. I persuaded the surgeon to do local instead of general so you wouldn’t be here longer. I worked my ass off for you!”

“He knows that. You know that, don’t you Matty?”

The smack of flesh against flesh. He jerks in the bed.

“Whoa Matty. Plaster’s still drying remember. Fifteen more minutes.” Foggy’s hand presses down on his chest. His hair moves. Turning his head. “Look I’m all for yelling at this guy, but now’s not the time. He knows what you did. He’ll thank you later.”

“Then why has he been giving us the silent treatment all this time like a sulking five year old?”

A whimper of pain from the woman. A harsh voice telling someone they’ve called security. A man’s fast footsteps as he walks away.

It echoes in his mind. The smack of flesh on flesh. The whimper of pain. It spirals until it’s his whimper of pain, the smack of flesh against his flesh. He takes a breath and it smells of blood and grime. He remembers what happened. He’s not sure he ever really forgot.

“Hey, hey, Matty. What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” Soft hands on his face. The scent of donuts and Foggy.

There’s wet on his cheeks. It’s not blood. He gasps a breath, shakes his head, but he can’t - stop - crying.

“I’ll get the discharge papers ready,” Claire says, her voice quiet. Her footsteps leave the room.

The smell of Foggy envelopes him. His head leans against Matt’s in an awkward overly careful hug. “Buddy, come on, talk to me.”

“I-I-” sobs wrack his chest. It hurts despite the painkillers they insisted on giving him. “I want to go home Foggy. Please, please. I just want to go home.”

***

“You ready to tell me what happened?”

Matt draws the silk sheets higher up his chest. They’re smooth and comforting under the fingers of his good hand. The mattress shifts beside him. Foggy sitting down.

“You slept for ages man.” Foggy leans forward. The warmth from his body leeches across the gap and into Matt’s skin. “And you’re really quiet. I know the drugs mess you up, but I’m worried.”

“Don’t be,” Matt says. The codeine is wearing off. It’s easier to interpret the mass of stimuli around him. But it’s harder too. The pain makes everything too sharp, too loud. His ribs ache with every breath he takes. Everything hurts. “I’m just-” he waves his hand vaguely through the air. “I’m tired.”

“You look it buddy. It’s nearly midnight and no one would be able to tell you’d been sleeping most of the day.”

He hasn’t. He’s been pretending to sleep most of the day. He’d be pretending to sleep now, but it’s hard to remember to keep his eyes closed when he can’t see out of them. His fingers pick at the bedsheets.

“So take your pill and tell me how daredevil got so banged up.” Foggy taps the back of his hand.

“I don’t need - I don’t need…”

“Sure you do.” Foggy’s voice hardens.

Matt sighs but turns his hand over. He swallows the pill, chasing it with the water Foggy offers. Bitter taste explodes in the back of his throat, making him cringe. Not long until his senses swirl into nonsense again, but at least this way he might get some sleep.

The mattress shifts as Foggy shifts next to him, shoulder to shoulder. “So tell me why I’m playing nursemaid again Murdock.”

Matt’s mouth opens, then closes. “Foggy.”

“Nah ah,” Foggy says, that warning tone still there. “We promised we’d be truthful with each other.”

The air seems to disappear from the room. Foggy doesn’t know what he’s asking. But Matt owes him something. “Just a random group of thugs.”

Shocked laughter bites through the air next to him. It hurts more than his ribs. “A random group of thugs got the better of daredevil?”

Matt turns his attention to the edge of the blanket again, picking at it harshly to force the prickling behind his eyes away.

A sigh. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I was just surprised.”

No change to his heart-rate. It’s not a lie. “It was a busy night. I was tired. There was a noise. A cat I think. One of them managed to get me with a baseball bat. My head. I went - I went d-down. They beat me up before I got away.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry Foggy. I’m really sorry.” He wishes he could tuck his knees to his chest like he usually does when he’s upset. The moment replays in his head. The woman’s scream, leaping down from the fire escape. The first hit, the second, everything going well. Then that noise, and the baseball bat swinging at his skull too late to dodge. It was so simple. It was something he’s done dozens of times before. How could he screw it up so badly?

A hand on his head. He startles.

“Buddy. Hey. Breathe OK. You did it to help someone, right?” Foggy’s hand rests on the nape of his neck. A spot of comfort on his pain-wracked body.

“A woman. She got away.” Anger stabs through him. She ran away. He was there for hours and she could’ve stopped it. If she’d called the police. But no. He’s being unfair. She was in shock. They’d been about to do to her what they did to him. And how was she to know he’d make a stupid mistake and end up in the same position.

Foggy sighs. “Look, you know I don’t like the idea of you out there. I hate that you could get hurt. I’m not going to deny that I might yell at you once you’re all healed up, but for now let’s just be happy that the woman’s alright. And hey, you got out of there, right? As in you left some of them standing to save your own skin?”

No. They were the ones who left him there. Curled up in that alley.

_‘Look at him crying his eyes out.’_

Because he was too pathetic to hurt any more. That’s the only reason they walked away. He’d been so pathetic that beating him up stopped being fun.

_‘Are you sure this is daredevil? What a fucking baby.’_

Matt nods his head shakily. “I left them there.”

The hand at the nape of his neck squeezes. “Yay for self preservation. Just for that I’m getting you your favourite ice cream tomorrow.”

Matt tries to smile, but it doesn’t stay on his face. At least something in this makes Foggy happy.

***

He turns it over in his head. Did he skimp on his training? Maybe. He could always work harder. Is there something Stick taught him that could’ve prevented this? He’s not sure. All he knows is Stick would’ve never allowed something like this to happen to him, so there must be something Matt could’ve done. If Stick could’ve prevented being attacked like that, then Matt should’ve too.

It’s half asleep and deep in the haze of drugs that he remembers.

Panic bolts through him, followed by pain as he pushes himself free of the mass of pillows. His feet stumble on the floor. He can’t trace the sound along the floor like he used to. He guesses the distance to the bedroom door and ends up a few inches short and way to the right. His bad shoulder taps the door frame.

He must swallow the yelp of pain too late, because there’s a shuffling sound from the couch. “Matty. What you doing?” The words exit Foggy’s mouth in a long yawn.

“I-” What is he doing? Matt rubs his shoulder trying to get it to quit screaming. “I need something from the hardware store.”

The shuffle of blankets. Foggy’s feet touching the floor. “Buddy it’s three in the morning. Go to bed like a normal person.”

He shakes his head - which ouch, bad idea. Panic thrums through him. It feels like a living thing, clawing to get out. “Foggy you don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand buddy. Help me understand why my best friend is getting up in the middle of the night to go shopping? Half dead, I might add.”

“I’m not half dead.” But he might be if he doesn’t go.

“You look it Matty. This way bud. Let’s talk this through. Hopefully you’ll see it for the drug fuelled idea it is and go back to sleep.” Foggy touches Matt’s good arm, pulls him gently in the direction of one of his armchairs.

“Foggy.” What is wrong with him? Why does he feel like crying all the time. Even the thought of sitting in one of those chairs and not getting what he needs makes him want to bawl. He really is a fucking baby. “I need to get it. I need it.”

“Sit.”

His leg touches the armchair. He lowers himself into it. His ribs thank him for sitting down. His insides don’t thank him. “Foggy please. This is important.”

The scrape of skin on skin. Foggy wiping a hand across his face. He sits, but on the coffee table right in front of Matt. “I’m trying to understand buddy. What do you need to get?”

“Locks.” The word leaves his mouth in a rush. He wants to grab it back.

“Why buddy?” A hand touches his knee. “Why do you need more locks?”

“I need.” Matt leans back until the back of his head touches the back of his armchair. Panic tears up his insides. He doesn’t want to tell. Foggy will hate him. Foggy will hate him so much. But Foggy needs to know. If Matt is in danger, then Foggy is too. “We’re not safe.”

The hand stops rubbing his knee. “Why aren’t we safe Matt?”

Matt opens his mouth. The words won’t come out.

“Matt.” Foggy’s voice turns cold. “Why aren’t we safe? What happened?”

“They…” he thinks about telling Foggy the whole truth and his throat clamps up again.

Foggy shoves his knee. “Tell me what happened!”

The pain is small, but it jolts a bigger hurt through him. He can’t tell Foggy the whole truth, but there’s one thing he has to tell him. “They took off my mask.”

Foggy pushes himself up from the coffee table, moves away like Matt is contaminated. Matt focuses on the warmth his body left behind until it leeches away. Silence, or Matt’s version of it. He tries to focus on Foggy’s rapidly beating heart, but keeps losing it. He turns his attention to his pacing feet instead. They’re easier to hear. “Do they know you’re blind?”

Matt knows why he’s asking. Looking for one guy in hells kitchen is going to be difficult. But looking for one guy who’s blind might narrow down the suspects enough to make it possible to find him. “I don’t think so. They thought they hit me too hard on the head and that’s why my eyes were weird.”

“How close a look did they get?” Foggy’s feet pace back and forth in front of the windows. He stops at the couch to pick up something. The shuffling of clothes. Getting dressed.

Matt shudders, remembering cheap cigarette smoke mixed with equally cheap beer. “Close.”

The footsteps are harder this time. Foggy has his shoes on. Matt follows the sound down the hallway and to the front door. It opens, then shuts with a slam.


	2. Chapter 2

Drilling jolts him awake.

The noise is so loud it takes a while to place it. There. His front door. A figure crouching. Foggy. Foggy’s back. Relief spreads through him. He’s not sure what he would’ve done without Foggy here.

His senses are still wrapped in that drug haze that makes it hard to focus, but it’s less now. He can hear the rapid fire heartbeat. He can smell the anger pouring off him.

Matt’s good hand grips the armrest of the chair, fingers trailing back and forth over the soft surface. He traces the stitches, tries to focus on breathing.

Foggy says nothing as he walks past him, up the stairs to give that door the same treatment. The new lock is in his hand, stinking of polish. Ten long minutes of drilling and he’s downstairs again.

“I got the OK from your landlord. Made up some excuse about a mugging and how I was afraid for you up here all alone. Each door has a shiny new deadlock. You’ll have to remember to open the roof one if you still want to get in that way. It’s better than the shitty locks that came with the place, but it’s not foolproof. To get it any better you’ll have to replace the shitty door as well.”

Would it help? Maybe. At the very least it would buy him some time to get out or prepare for a fight. “Thank you Foggy.”

“Save it.” Foggy heaved the drill in his hand, bent to pick up something from the floor with the other. “You’ve got codeine at your twelve o’clock. Time for another dose. A bottle of water on its right. Buttered toast on its left. I need to go put locks in the office and my apartment, y’know since we’re down as Nelson and Murdock in the freaking yellow pages. I don’t know what we’re going to do about Karen if she gets linked to this. I’ll spin some story about the office getting threats to try and get her to increase security at home.”

Matt takes a breath. It feels like knives. He’d never thought too closely about what could happen if someone figured out he was daredevil. Foggy’s right. It would take someone two seconds to link Foggy to him. “I’m sorry. I’m really - Foggy I’m really sorry.”

“No, I’m too busy being angry with you for your stupid choices getting us in trouble. What if your thug friends found me, is that what you want? What if they found Karen?”

Matt flinches at the anger in his voice. “Foggy.”

“No. I said no. Look, hopefully I cool off tomorrow and we can act like nothing happened, but right now I can’t do this.” Foggy’s footsteps head toward the door. “I’ve arranged for Karen to come over in an hour. For the love of God don’t do something stupid and die before then.”

The door shuts and Matt is alone.

***

“Foggy said to text him if you didn’t finish your toast,” Karen says, sounding awkward. Her heart flutters like she’s nervous. She’s holding something that bobs above her head. Another balloon.

Matt lowers himself into the chair with a bitten back groan. There’s something wrong with the way he smells, and not that he skipped his shower today. A hot burning on his back and - and - a place he can’t think about. A sweet sickly smell that speaks of infection. He’s trying not to think about it. “I’m not hungry.”

There’s a small nervous smile in her voice. “That’s what he said you’d say. He also said not to believe you.”

Matt picks up the toast. It’s cold and tastes like wet cardboard. He makes himself chew and swallow, chew and swallow.

“Good decision. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side right now.” She shuffles something over on the couch. Foggy must have left the blanket. She sits.

He drowns the taste of toast out of his mouth with water, places it down. Only having one hand to use makes things difficult. His right arm stays strapped to his chest where it will stay for at least another couple of weeks to give time for his shoulder to heal. “I already got on his bad side.”

“I heard.” Karen moves her hand and the object in the air moves. Definitely a balloon. “He said you fell down some stairs.”

“Yeah.” He hates lying to her. He hates making Foggy lie to her even more. “A whole two flights.”

Karen’s clothing moves. Leaning forward. “I don’t think you cut up your knuckles like that from a flight of stairs.”

Matt wraps his arm around his ribs self consciously.

“And that bruised cheek and split lip, definitely punches.”

A blush rises to his face. “Karen…”

“You don’t have to explain,” Karen says. “Unless you want to of course. Just don’t treat me like an idiot, please?”

He ducks his head, happy that he managed to find his glasses. Having a barrier gives him some illusion of protection. “Sorry.”

She stands up, leaning over the coffee table. Her arm stretches out. Her heart skips a beat when she remembers he’s blind and can’t see what she’s doing, but she recovers quicker than she has before. “Reach your hand out. I have something for you.”

He puts his hand out.

She folds it around the ribbon with her own. He pulls it down, feeling the tug of resistance. It smells like the few birthday parties he went to as a child. Warmth pools in his chest. “What does this one have on it?”

“A bee next to a flower.” Karen settles back on the couch. “It says bee well on it. Two ee’s on the bee.”

He manages a smile.

“Foggy said you liked the last one. Said you sulked when you found it’d run out of helium.”

“Foggy says too much.” He pulls on the ribbon, lets a little fall through his fingers and feels the balloon try to pull the rest away from him. “Thank you.”

She shifts self consciously. “Foggy said to make sure you took your painkillers.”

If he twitches his fingers the balloon jerks up and down rapidly, like a boat on rocky waters. It makes interesting noises in the air. If he gets it just right the ribbon makes a thwap sound. “I’m going to try lowering my dose.”

A sigh. “Matt.”

“If the pain gets too bad I’ll take some.” The pain is already pretty bad, but he needs a clear head.

“Please at least take some aspirin. You can still take codeine if it gets bad, and at least you have something in your system.”

It’s a good idea. “There’s some in the bathroom cabinet.”

She gets up to get some.

The rest of the day goes fine. Despite some initial awkwardness they find things to do. She introduces him to an audio-book of ‘how to train your dragon.’ It’s pretty juvenile since it is for juveniles. Plenty of toilet humour. But it’s funny and sweet and it has dragons. Then she launches into a debate about pros and cons of the books and the movies. Apparently she liked the movie better.

It’s then that she realises he hasn’t seen the movie. After berating Foggy over text message about this, she tracks down an audio description version on netflix and they watch it side by side on his bed while he sips on chicken soup. It’s not as comfortable as it is with Foggy, but it’s pretty nice. At least until the pain racks up a few hundred notches. She asks him if he’s sure he doesn’t want some codeine.

He says no the first few times, listening warily as she taps away on her phone. To Foggy no doubt, who must be getting plenty fed up with his behaviour. Eventually she stops the movie at the most exciting moment, then takes the tablet away until he takes the pill. He takes it, partly because he doesn’t want Foggy getting more pissed at him (pausing the movie had to be his idea), and partly because he wants to know what on earth is going to happen in the fight with the giant dragon.

It’s a good movie. He thinks he prefers it to the book as well.

Foggy isn’t back on Friday. Matt takes his codeine every time Karen asks him to, hoping Foggy will hear about it and come back. It takes away his focus, but not enough not to be able to tell what he’s going to have to do.

She answers on the first ring.

“This better be good.”

He shifts in his bed. He can smell the sweat trickling from his body, and only some of it is caused by the reason he’s calling. “Claire. I need some antibiotics.”

A huff. The sound of her moving around. “One of your cuts get infected?”

It’s mostly the truth. He swallows down the panic. Karen is resting on the sofa. She’s far enough away not to hear. All he has to do is get Claire to get him some antibiotics. Then this problem will be over. He won’t have to worry about it. “Yes.”

“So go back to the doctor. They know about them. It’s not going to break your cover.”

The panic rises again. It’s harder to swallow this time. “I can’t.”

A pause. Her voice is more careful this time. “Look getting antibiotics is a quick thing. Just show them the wound that’s infected. They’ll clean it up if it needs cleaning, give you the pills, and you can leave. If we get the timing right I might even be able to jump you to the head of the queue so you don’t have to wait around.”

He wishes he had two hands so he could use one to slide the silk bed-covers between his fingers to calm himself. Instead he grips the phone. “It’s not - it’s not a cut they’ve seen.”

“And you can’t show it to them because?”

This day was going so well. How did it all fall apart? “Because I can’t show it to them. Can you please just get the antibiotics. Please Claire?”

“I’ll be over in twenty.”

“No Claire.” The line is dead. He throws the phone across the room.

The clatter must alert Karen because she’s knocking on his door a minute later. “Matt, can I come in?”

Matt doesn’t answer. He should answer, but he’s too busy clenching his jaw shut as tight as possible. His hand grips his hair, focusing on the slight pain to ground himself.

The door slides open. Karen’s footsteps move past him to where the phone is. Clicking of plastic and metal. She’s picking up the pieces.

“It’s-” He works his jaw loose. The hand stays gripped in his hair. Irrationally he wishes he had the balloon to distract him. He’d tied it to the coffee table. “It’s broken?”

Metal against metal. Plastic sliding together. A button being pressed. “The battery fell out. It’s fine.” Her shoes walk over to him. Her movements are slow but steady. It’s calming. Plastic against wood. “I’m putting it on your bedside table. Bad news?”

“Someone’s coming over. I might need a little space for a couple hours.” He feels bad for making her leave. And he remembers her request not to treat her like an idiot. The least he can do is give her as much of the truth as possible. “They may want to talk about something kind of tense. Sorry for asking you to leave.”

“No problem.” A shuffle of cloth. “I can pick up snacks for tonight. There’s this audio-book I want to show you. It’s beautiful. Kind of sad though. So feel free to put your own bids in as to what we do. I’d offer to give you space but…”

“But Foggy would kill you?”

“Something like that.”

***

“Do you have them?” He asks as he opens the door.

He can feel the stare she levels back at him. “I’ve got a shift tonight. I may be able to get a hold of them, but I need to see the evidence first.”

He’s heavy from the drugs. He traces the wall back through the apartment. Turn right. Ten steps forward and he’s at the armchair. He lowers himself down with his one arm, then reaches out to twang the ribbon of the balloon. “Don’t you trust me?”

“I just need to make sure it’s the right treatment. These are prescription drugs Matt. I’m not putting my job on the line unless it’s for a very good reason.” She doesn’t take a seat, pacing the floor instead.

“I can feel them burning. I can smell them. I know what an infected wound smells like.”

“There are low grade creams that might be more suitable. You don’t need a prescription for those.”

“They won’t work.” He shakes his head, drags the ribbon of the balloon toward him. The tug against his fingers is soothing. “The infection’s too - too much.”

“Which I would know if I could see them.” Her shoes pace between the couch and the armchair. He can’t focus on her heartbeat. He regrets taking the codeine.

He inches the balloon down with his fingers. The movement tugs at his torn knuckles. “Please Claire. Please just trust me.”

She sits down on the coffee table. Her clothing makes a noise like she’s holding herself very tightly. “I do trust you. But I also care about you enough not to trust your medical judgement in the state you’re in.”

The balloon reaches in front of his face. It smells both metallic and plastic through his hazed senses. He rests his forehead on it. It’s cool to the touch.

“Please let me help you.” Her voice is closer, like she’s leaning toward him. If his senses weren’t so unfocused he could tell exactly where she is.

“There’s one on my back,” he finds himself saying. “Under my right shoulder blade.”

He tenses as she shucks up the back of the zip up hoodie he’s taken to wearing over his arm. He opens his mouth to tell her to stop, to tell her he’s changed his mind. But all the words are gone. His mouth opens and closes instead.

There’s a moment when she freezes, and a long few seconds of silence afterwards. Then there’s the rustle of hair as she shakes her head, and she’s back. Her tone is composed. “I’m never sending that doctor a patient again. How could he miss this?”

He taps the balloon against his forehead, presses his lips together.

A slam of something heavy against the coffee table. The zip of a bag opening. The smell of alcohol and antiseptic. A medical kit. She digs around for a while, calling the doctor all kinds of unsavoury names before she finds what she’s looking for. “I’m going to clean it. This is going to hurt like hell.”

It does hurt, but not as much as he expects it to. Maybe because of the codeine, maybe because her movements are much more gentle than she usually is. He flinches only twice.

“I’m thinking we’ll try a short course. Seven days. See if that will kick it. I’m not sure whether to go for cream or pills though.” She dabs something on the wound that’s cool. “I’m putting some low grade on now. I’m not sure if it will do anything, but it’s worth a try. We might’ve caught this early enough.”

She puts his hoodie carefully back in place. Shuffling as she packs up her medical kit. Her shoes walk to the sink. Water. Washing hands. Then she’s back, sitting on the coffee table in front of him. “I’m guessing there’s another wound though.”

The balloon tugs against his hand. It wants to be free. He holds it tight. His words don’t work, so he nods instead.

“Matt.” Shuffling. Leaning forward. “You have an infected bite mark on your back, and finger mark bruising around your waist and hips. I’m going to take a guess and say the other infected wound’s your rectum or anus. Shake your head if it’s not.”

He doesn’t shake his head.

“OK, pills it is in case this is internal. An exam could tell us if it is or not, but I’m guessing you don’t want that.”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want that.

“Here’s what we’re going to do.” Claire sounds so in control. He envies her a little. “I’m going to get you a short course of antibiotics and some stool softeners. There may be a couple more things I need, but I need to ask a couple of questions. I’ll try to keep it to yes or no answers. Is that alright?”

It isn’t, but he nods anyway.

“Was there blood in your underwear today?”

A nod.

“More than a few drops?”

He shakes his head.

“Was there more than one assailant?” How can she sound so calm?

He nods.

“More than three?”

He nods again. He hopes his glasses and the balloon hides most of his expression.

“Did they wear condoms?”

He can’t breathe.

“Matt?”

He shakes his head.

“OK.” She catches the balloon before the last of the ribbon can disappear, lowers the ribbon to his hand. “That puts you at high risk for certain stds. I don’t want you to worry about that. It just means a few more pills to take and I’ll need to take some blood samples sometime. You’re a tough guy. You can handle me taking a little blood.”

It’s a joke, but he doesn’t laugh. His hand grips the balloon string so hard it shakes.

“I won’t be offended either way. But do you want me to stay or leave right now?” How can she know all the things she does about him and still be so _nice_?

He takes a breath, but the words won’t come. He points his hand at the door instead, not turning his head toward her.

She picks up her bag, then hovers a moment. “Matt? Do you have someone to stay with you tonight?”

He nods his head. It’s jerky but the words come. “Karen.”

“That’s good. If things go well I’ll drop by tomorrow morning with the pills. If not I’ll contact you.” With that she leaves.

The door closes, and he collapses back against the armchair.


	3. Chapter 3

Karen comes back sooner than he expects her to. The click of the lock. The door opening. He hadn’t put the deadbolt back in place after Claire left. Stupid of him.

The sharp click of her shoes down the hallways. Ruffling of plastic. She brought shopping. He should offer to help her. Her heartbeat stutters through before he loses it again to the haze of noise. “You look like shit.”

He doesn’t answer.

She pauses a moment then moves to the kitchen area. The rustling of plastic as she puts things away. A wave of cold as she puts something in the freezer. Then she walks toward him, sits on the coffee table. “Seriously, I thought you looked terrible before, but now you look even worse.”

Her heartbeat flutters with nerves but there’s a steel of confidence to her voice. She’s trying to make him laugh. He doesn’t feel like laughing so he drags up some words instead. “I don’t feel like sad audio-books tonight. Sorry.”

“I can see that.” Her hand reaches toward him, stops. “How about we find something lighter to do instead? A movie, or a different book?”

He wants Foggy. He wants her to reach out that hand and touch him. To stop him from floating away in the haze of noise and bad memories. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to stay.” She lowers her arm. Disappointment floods through him. He wishes she’d reached out. “If you want space that’s fine. Let me get you something to eat and I can stay out here. I promise I won’t disturb you. Not even if you throw your phone again.”

Anger bubbles up. He grabs hold of it. It’s the first emotion he’s felt other than fear for a long time. “I’m fine! I don’t need you and Foggy to mother hen me.”

Her heart jumps. He scared her.

He lets go of the balloon to rub a hand gingerly across his face. “I’m sorry Karen.”

“It’s fine. I’m being forced into this as well. Which isn’t to say I don’t want to be here. I do.” She shuffles awkwardly on the coffee table. “Look you got out of hospital two days ago. You scared Foggy half to death. Let’s just make tonight as painless as possible. I’m sure when he sees you tomorrow he’ll agree to let up on the Matt watch.”

His heart lifts in his chest. “He’s coming?”

“I think so.” Rustling clothes. Leaning closer. “He’s really happy you’ve been taking your pills and eating. I’ve been keeping him updated and he seems impressed.”

There’s a hint to her words. Keep being a good patient and Foggy will come back. He can play along. It’s only tonight. Maybe the weekend. Then he can persuade Foggy not to bar him from the office on Monday. Things can go back to normal. Well, relative normal until he’s healed enough to go out daredeviling again.

“How about another movie like the one we watched last night?”

They watch Tangled. It’s funny. Though Matt thinks swinging about on your hair sounds unlikely. Cool, but unlikely. Maybe he could get some kind of grappling hooks though. That could be neat.

Matt takes his pills, goes to sleep. After Claire it’s the most normality he could expect. Even if has to stumble to each of the doors three times to feel for himself that each lock is firmly in place. Karen doesn’t comment, and helps without complaint when he finds out that stairs are firmly on the list of hideously painful things to do with his type of injuries.

It’s not as bad a day as it could’ve been, so he’s the most surprised of the two of them when she wakes him up in the middle of the night yelling his name.

There’s something heavy on his chest, crushing him. Only when he checks with his hand there’s nothing there. But he still can’t breathe.

“Matt?” She’s not close, but not far either. He can’t get a gauge. No more codeine, he decides. No matter what Foggy says. “Matt, can you hear me?”

His breath pumps in and out before he can put it to use. He grabs the next one. “What?”

“You were having a nightmare,” Karen says, her voice edged with fear. “You were shouting.”

.His next gasp lets in more air. No intruders, he tells himself. No one here but him and Karen. “Sorry.”

He can hear the eye roll in her voice. “Matt. It’s a nightmare. It’s not like you can help it.”

But he can, he thinks. Or he should be able to. Meditation helps. He hasn’t had a clear enough head to meditate for a while. It’s stupid of him. Meditation should be a top priority. It’ll help him heal faster. He’s slacking. “What was I shouting?”

She’s close enough to pick out her heart flutter. “I couldn’t make it out.”

“Don’t-” he forces himself to breathe deep, hold it a little longer than he wants, then let it out. “Don’t treat me like an idiot Karen.”

“You were shouting for Foggy.” Her voice is quiet. “For him to help you.”

The air freezes in his lungs. It’s a struggle to wrestle his breathing back under control.

“Matt.” Her voice comes from lower. Crouching down. “I know what it’s like to have secrets. I’m not going to push. But if you need to talk to someone, I’m here. OK? Anytime.”

“OK.” The word sounds strangled.

Shifting of clothing. Getting to her feet. “I doubt you’ll be sleeping for a while. Want me to bring you anything?”

He doesn’t remember the dream, but the feeling of terror from it weighs him down. Sleeping sounds like the worst idea in the world right now. “Could you - can I listen to that book you talked about?”

The book is A Monster Calls, about a boy wrapped in grief and anger. It’s beautiful, but Karen’s right, it’s sad too. Karen sits far on the other side of the bed, and they listen to it together.

***

Claire is there when he wakes up. Foggy isn’t.

Matt pushes down his disappointment, listening carefully as Claire explains what each pill is and how many to take. She fiddles with the braille labeller, and he nearly has a heart attack when the thing reads the name of the medicine out loud. She calms him with a touch less than her usual firmness. Karen is gone, she says. To “drag Foggy back by his ear.” She won’t hear, and even if she did she wouldn’t know what the medicine is for.

They label the rest of the medicine quickly, then stash it away in his bedside cupboard. His heartbeat doesn’t return to normal until they’re firmly shut away. He even manages to sound faintly normal when he asks Claire to help him wrap his arm so he can take a shower. It’s not like he can ask Foggy. He’d see the bruises around his waist. He’d know the same way Claire knows.

The clatter of Foggy and Karen comes through the door as Claire helps him cut the bin bag away from his arm. His face must show something because her hand falls heavily on his shoulder.

“You’re fine. The bathroom door’s locked. Breathe.”

He breathes. Claire cuts away the rest of the plastic. Then the zip up hoodie is warm around his shoulders.

A knock on the bathroom door. He flinches.

“Matty, you OK in there?” Foggy’s voice. It sounds cheerful, with a hint of worry.

Claire’s hair makes a sound as she turns her head. “He’ll be out in a minute.”

Surprised muttering outside the door.

“They’re going to think we’re up to something,” Matt says, trying to pretend his breathing is even. He pulls his good hand through the sleeve Claire holds ready, then fiddles with the zip.

Claire nudges his hands away and pulls up the zip easily with her two hands. “We are up to something.”

He wishes it wasn’t so hard to remember how to smile. “Not the kind of thing they think.”

“Yeah, I’m leaving before that line of questioning comes up.” She hands him his glasses. “Maybe these will help get rid of that cornered look. That’s not going to help our case. Behave. And call me if you’re not seeing an improvement in the next few days.”

He puts the glasses on. “Thanks Claire.”

The click of the bathroom lock. A few calm words to Foggy and Karen. Matt catches an order for someone to make sure “That idiot gets some rest.” Then her shoes echo to the front door.

Matt can feel the grin Foggy directs his way as he walks out of the bathroom. “What Foggy?”

“So you and Claire made up. That’s nice.” If Foggy thinks he’s fooling anyone with that innocent tone, he’s the idiot.

“She’s just checking up on me. And I needed someone to help me wrap my arm so I could shower.” He fumbles his way to the armchair, sits down. “I think our relationship is more like someone who feeds a stray animal they hate, because they can’t stand the guilt if they starve. She’s afraid I won’t go back to the hospital if something goes wrong.”

“She’s probably right.” The crinkle of plastic. Chinese takeout. “I got you your egg fried rice since you’re boring. I figured since you’re actually resting for once we could make a day of it. Karen tells me you and her are on an animated movie fest.”

“How to train your dragon and Tangled.” Matt nods. “They were good.”

Tapping of plastic. A low electronic hum. Setting up a tablet. “You need to take your painkillers before we start Matty?”

“No,” Matt lies. “I took them already.”

***

Matt spends Sunday morning throwing up.

He hates throwing up. It sets his ribs on fire. It’s almost impossible to puke without jostling his shoulder. One particularly violent cough raps his splinted fingers against the bucket. It makes his throat feel like sandpaper again. Horrible foul tasting sandpaper.

There’s two pluses he can find. One is that Foggy and Karen finally left last night so he has the apartment to himself. The other is that he anticipated this. Claire told him which drugs had this side effect. So they were the ones he took first thing with a bucket at the ready. No crouching over a toilet for him. With his sense of smell toilets and nausea are a deadly combination.

Matt rinses out the bucket for the fifth time and settles in the armchair. That’s it, he tells himself. That’s all the puking his stomach is doing today.

Of course he ends up cleaning out the bucket a sixth time before he can start meditating.

Usually he’d meditate on the floor. His arm wouldn’t complain, and neither would his ribs if he sat up properly. It’s his other wounds that tell him sitting any place harder than his armchair is a bad idea.

Deep breath in. Hold it. Slow breath out.

No codeine today, and his last dose of aspirin is losing its grip. There’s a method he learnt to deal with pain. It’s not easy, and it doesn’t always work. He calms himself slowly, counting each breath in for five, hold for five, release for five. Once he judges he’s about as relaxed as he’s going to get, he turns his attention to scanning his body.

His shoulder blares at him with pain, so he settles his attention there first. He observes the sensations from that area without judgement. Much of pain is the attempt to hide from or change something that hurts. If he just accepts it as it is, it isn’t so bad. The pain doesn’t decrease, but the panic surrounding it does. It becomes easier to take the pain without feeling he needs to do something about it.

That done he moves his attention to the arm.

‘ _This’ll teach you to hit me you bastard!’_

His heart-rate spikes. No. Focus on breathing. In. Hold. Out. He needs to focus.

Veering his attention away from the arm for now, he focuses on his head. There’s a dull ache under the stitches. He dwells there a while. He watches the pain, maps it. It becomes familiar, easier to stand. Next to the ribs. Three cracked ribs. A lot of ground to cover. He watches each ache and pain impassively. Down to the stabbing pain that starts near the base of his spine.

_‘Hold him down would you. He’s squirming.’_

_‘I thought you liked that?’_

_‘Not when he’s trying to kick me you idiot.’_

Matt shakes his head. His fingers twitch. He can do this. Start again. He settles on the stitches on his cheekbone, then his split lip, bruised jaw. He works his way slowly downward. The arm goes better this time. Down to the stabbing pain. No judgements. No thoughts. Just watch.

_‘Bleeding all over the place!’_

He gets to his feet sharply enough to make his ribs scream. His feet pace to the kitchen area, back to the armchair, to the kitchen area. His hand curls up so tight he can feel the newly healed skin across his knuckles break. There’s nothing to hit that won’t hurt his hand. Except the balloon, and he can’t hit that.

He runs his hand through his hair instead, pacing, pacing. It takes a while but the pain in his body wears him down.

Back to the armchair. Time to try again.

***

Foggy tells him that under no uncertain terms is he allowed to go to work on Monday.

Monday morning Matt huffs as he tries to do up his tie with one hand. He’d thought the buttons on his shirt were difficult, but this is impossible. Eventually he concedes to not wear a tie this once. It’s not like he needs a tie. He can do fine without it.

He ends up chucking it in his bag anyway. Maybe Karen will help him.

Getting ready takes so long that he has to skip breakfast. It’s no big loss. He’s not feeling hungry after his morning affair with the bucket.

His heart flutters in his chest as he leaves the door. It takes a while to label the feeling as eager. He’s looking forward to going to work. Sure, Foggy’s going to complain and threaten to send him home, but he’ll come around. He bounced back from the mask thing with Karen’s help.

The mask thing creates a pool of dread in his stomach. He pushes it away. It’s not like he can do anything right now. When he has his arm back he can go back out and beat them senseless (can’t he?). Until then he can focus on getting back in fighting form as quick as possible.

He slows his pace to join the crowd of people waiting to cross the street. Two blocks, then at the office. He needs to come up with a good excuse to get Foggy to feel better about him coming in. He could promise light duties. He could use the day to catch up on the cases they’re working on. That wouldn’t be too bad.

“I can’t believe they unmasked daredevil.”

“Yeah. I was starting to believe he was a ghost.”

The air around him turns from warm spring air to subzero in less than a second. The crowd moves forward. He stumbles.

A hand touches his arm. One of the girls that was talking. “Are you OK?”

He nods, moves with the crowd.

Two blocks. Two blocks to the office. It’s closer than home.

“The video’s all over the Internet.”

He walks quicker, sweeping his cane from side to side. The voice falls behind. But there are so many more.

“Do you think they’ll figure out who he is?”

“I hear the video got a good view of his face. And everything else I’ll imagine.”

“Can you believe it? Rape. They fucking raped daredevil.”

“They must’a had balls of steel to rape that guy.”

“Eh, I saw the video. He doesn’t look so tough.”

Almost there. He can smell the wet concrete of the building. His heart hammers in his chest. The world around him seems to be made of words about him, every one an explosion to his ears. It’s instinct more than anything that guides him to the doors.

He reaches a hand to open the door. A car drives past. “Hey. Cabbie. Don’t you think that guy looks a lot like the one in the video?”

***

“His face is plastered across every newspaper Foggy!” Karen. She sounds angry. “Don’t you try to tell me it’s not him!”

“I’m saying there could be another explanation.” Foggy’s pacing. Short sharp footsteps. He’s agitated. He’s also lying.

“Stop trying to cover this up and let me help!”

Matt wants to go back to his flat. He wishes he never left. But he doesn’t want to go back out there. His hand reaches out and opens the door.

Silence. No movement. Two hammering heartbeats.

His head doesn’t know what to do, but his body seems to. It closes the door behind him, drops the cane, walks to his office, opens the door, closes it. His bag lands by his desk where it usually goes. Then he’d usually sit down in the chair behind his desk and look through the paperwork already piled there. Organise his day.

Instead he moves past the chair. He crouches down beside it, the desk blocking any view of him from the door. He sits on the floor, tucking his knees so tightly to his chest that his ribs scream and his plaster covered arm bites into his legs. His insides twist. He ignores them.

The door opens. It closes.

Footsteps walk around the desk. Heavy. Foggy’s. The shift of clothing as he crouches. He’s so close his body heat reaches out and mingles with Matt’s. It should be comforting.

“Hey buddy.” Foggy’s heartbeat races, but his voice is calm. “I understand if you don’t want to talk right now. I’m just going to stay here, OK?”

Foggy’s too good for him. Foggy’s always been too good for him.

“I’m sorry Foggy.” Because he owes him that. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I-I-I’m s-sorry.”

“Hey.” Foggy’s hand grips his good shoulder. He squeezes. “This is not your fault Matty. None of this is your fault.”

Foggy’s heart tells him it’s not a lie, but Matt knows the truth. Matt opens his mouth to tell him that. This is all his fault. Everyone is going to know who he is. They’re going to find Foggy. They’re going to find Karen. One mistake and he’s ruined all their lives. Foggy should leave. Maybe he can convince the police he didn’t know.

The words jumble in his head. “Sorry,” he says instead, and what he means is ‘please don’t leave.’ “I’m sorry. I-I’m sorry. Sorry. Sorry. I’m s-sorry.” The sorrys tumble from his mouth one after the other. His tongue moves over them so quickly he’s not sure they make sense.

There’s a woman talking down the hall. “I clicked on the video before they started taking it down. Didn’t know what it was of course.”

“Yeah. Those pictures are everywhere. It’s funny, you know who he looks like?”

Foggy’s saying something, but he can’t tell what. The sorrys keep exploding from his mouth like he needs them to breathe. Foggy probably wants him to stop. Matt wants to stop, but he doesn’t know how. Warm hands on the back of his neck, and he’s being tugged into an equally warm chest. The smell of Foggy wraps around him like a warm blanket. The sorrys hiccup out of him so sharply they hurt.

“That lawyer? The cute one?”

“Yeah, but he can’t be daredevil, right? He’s blind!”

“I don’t know. The guy’s eyes did look pretty weird in the video.”


	4. Chapter 4

Matt doesn’t know how long he’s been here.

He’s bone tired in a way that usually only happens after a beating. His forehead is pressed to Foggy’s shoulder. Foggy’s hand rubs small circles on his back, careful to steer clear of his wounds. Matt grips Foggy’s jacket with a tightness he doesn’t have the energy for.

He’s stopped talking, but he doesn’t remember when that happened.

The door to the office clicks open.

Matt flinches, then buries his head in Foggy’s neck in an instinct he hates. Hide, that instinct says. Hide in Foggy’s arms and he’ll keep them away. It’s stupid. He can hear Stick’s voice in his head telling him how stupid it is.

“Shh,” Foggy says. He rocks a little back and forth. It’s comforting despite the pain in his ribs. “It’s only Karen remember? Just me, you, and Karen here.”

No footsteps. Karen stays in the doorway. Her heart flutters. She reeks of fear. “Sorry guys.” The forced calm in her voice is anything but convincing. “Three different reporters have called asking questions about a Matt Murdock. I fobbed them off, but we should think about what we’re going to say.”

“Stick to no comment for now.” Foggy uses his lawyer voice. It’s the one he makes addressing a jury, or debating which member of the Avengers is the most awesome. “Any police?”

“None yet.”

Foggy huffs a laugh that Matt can feel vibrate through him. It sounds forced. “Those guys will be the last to do anything.”

“We could call your contact. He might know something?”

“Brett?”

“Yeah. It could give us an idea how much time we have.”

“Good thinking.” Foggy shuffles, letting go of Matt. He’s probably uncomfortable sitting on the floor like this. Not to mention the hug. Foggy’s always generous with hugs, but this has to be longest one they’ve ever had.

Matt backs up, sitting against the wall. It’s hard to make his hand let go of Foggy’s jacket.

“Buddy, I wasn’t…” Foggy’s hand squeezes Matt’s good shoulder. “I was just looking for my phone. OK? I’m not leaving. Understand?”

Matt should tell him that he can leave. Foggy has a lot of things to do because of him. And he’s taking up so much more of his time wanting him around. Instead he nods. The action is exhausting.

“Oh, I think you left it out here.” Karen’s footsteps move. Matt follows them to her desk, then to the kitchenette, then back.

Foggy stands up. The warmth from his body moves with him. Matt has to clench his fist in his lap to stop him from grabbing Foggy before he can move away.

Matt follows him with his ears. Foggy walks around the desk. Karen’s footsteps walk deeper into the room.

For a moment Matt panics. Then he remembers the desk. She can’t see him, not even from where she stands now. Plastic moving from Karen to Foggy. An electronic buzz and the slosh of water. A long moment of silence like they’re having a conversation without talking.

“I need you to research the video,” Foggy says. “Don’t watch it. Just look for a summary or something. I don’t know. We just need to know how obvious it is that Matt is daredevil. Like, does he do any moves unusual for a blind man. Stuff like that. I need to know what kind of defence to work on.”

A pause. Matt tries to control his breathing.

Something must show on Karen’s face. “I’m sorry to ask that of you,” Foggy says. He sounds it.

The faint smell of salt in the air. Tears. The movement of hair as Karen shakes her head. “No. It’s better that it’s me. Do you guys need anything else?”

“Yeah. Do we still have those blankets we stored here when we had that problem with the heating?” Foggy’s tone lightens. “If I’m going to be camping on the floor, I may as well be comfy.”

“I’ll look.” Karen’s footsteps leave the room.

Foggy’s footsteps walk back around the desk. A shuffling of clothing as he crouches. The scrape of plastic against plastic. Sloshing of water. He holds out something toward Matt. “Here. Drink something buddy.”

Matt’s arm feels too heavy for his body. With the water bottle clutched in his hand, his arm is almost too heavy to raise to his lips. He manages it. His mouth is so dry that he chokes on the first sip. He waits until his breathing evens out before trying another. This time goes better.

“Good job Matty,” Foggy says. There’s a smile in his voice. The bottle is taken away. “Hey, budge to your right a little would you? I want to sit next to you.”

Matt shuffles. His insides stab. He bites his tongue against the pain as Foggy’s warmth settles against his less injured side.

“You take any painkillers today?” Foggy’s tone is casual, but his heart beats with worry.

Matt shakes his head.

“You going to take any?”

Another shake.

Foggy doesn’t comment. Getting out his phone, he taps in the numbers, and leans against Matt’s side.

***

“Matty wake up.”

Matt shifts from the pile of blankets. Foggy’s scent surrounds him. A hand runs through his hair.

“Come on buddy. We’re going back to Karen’s tonight. Sleepover party,” Foggy says in a joking tone.

Matt uses the desk to get to his feet. His ribs and shoulder don’t thank him for the awkward sleeping position. He uses the time to check out the building. Him and Foggy in his office. Karen waiting outside the door. Fewer people in the building than there were before. Not as few as there are late at night. Late afternoon maybe?

Matt shakes Foggy’s hand off his shoulder after a few stiff steps. He can do this. He’s not that useless.

He hesitates before opening the door. Karen is out there.

“Here Matt.” Smooth plastic in his hand.

His glasses. He puts them on and opens the door.

Karen’s heartbeat speeds up only slightly before evening out. “Your cane,” she says softly.

He reaches out and takes it. Given how weird his senses are being recently there’s a good chance he’ll need it for real. “Th-th-th-ank you.” He hates himself a little for how pathetic he sounds.

“I called a cab,” she says, moving to the door to the hallway. Her body leans to one side. She’s carrying something heavy. “I figure the less people who see us the better.”

Us. Matt knows she really means him.

“Wait,” he says. He shouldn’t be so grateful that the word comes out whole.

Someone walks down the hallway, into another office. Door closing.

He nods. “Now.”

She doesn’t question it. They walk down the hallway, descend the painful stairs, into the cab and are gone.

***

A child cries on the ground floor. It’s a pained sound. They’re hurt. How? An adult’s voice nearby. Soothing. “Aw baby, did you fall down?”

A yelp above him. He focuses on her heartbeat. A sharp spike and quick evening out. She’s alone in her apartment. A cut finger maybe, or a stubbed toe. She’s fine.

A television two apartments to his right. “The police have received hundreds of phone calls today from people claiming to know who the real daredevil is. This comes after a video showing the masked vigilante being attacked went viral Sunday night.” A man’s voice. “Can you believe this. His face is all over the freaking news. You would’ve thought they’d have arrested someone by now.”

“Hey Matty.” Hands on his face. “Come back to me Matty.”

He blinks. The scent of soap and Foggy. “Foggy?”

“Yeah Matt.” Foggy sounds tired. “Why don’t you sit down before you fall down? We’ve tided up most of the mess. Karen is surprisingly messy.”

“You are my guest,” Karen’s voice calls out from a small room nearby. Scents of food. A kitchen. “You need to be polite to me.”

Foggy laughs. “I’m pretty sure it’s the other way around.”

Karen’s apartment isn’t big. Most is one room. A large bed. A big wooden cabinet with a lot of things on it he can’t identify. A chair Foggy leads him toward. A lot of space with wooden furniture and wooden doors. There’s the hallway they came through. The kitchen Karen’s in. And another small room behind a wooden door that Matt assumes is a bathroom.

The armchair is one of those squishy ones that tries to swallow you when you sit in it. The fabric is worn and it smells like cat.

Foggy sits down on something next to the armchair. One of those wooden tables. “Your choices are pizza or soup from that place you like. Karen picked up both on the way back from your apartment.”

“My - why did she go to my apartment?” Things are getting tangled again, like the day he came to in his shower and didn’t know how he got there. He still doesn’t know how he got there. Everything from them leaving him in that alley and snapping out of it in the shower is a total blank.

“Basics,” Foggy says. His heart stutters like he’s nervous. “Toothbrush, clothes, tablet, your weird leather outfit and black pyjamas.”

“Foggy.” Fear rises in his throat. “If someone catches you with that…”

“I know buddy. That’s why we took it. Look Brett says they’re trying to get a warrant for your place. If they found it there-”

“If they find it here then Karen gets in trouble,” Matt says. He can’t believe Foggy did that. “Foggy. My picture. They already know. They already.” He grits his teeth together hard enough to hurt. Focus. Deep breath, let it out. He can handle this. “I can’t bring you and Karen down with me.”

“I know buddy,” Foggy says, his voice sad. “We planned for that. It’s not like we’re going to be much help if we’re locked up too. The suits are in a bag. Nothing identifying on or in it. Today is our regular Monday is a shit day sleepover. We take it in turns to host and tonight it’s Karen’s turn. They’ll try the office first and get nothing. Too bad for them. Should’ve tried in office hours. Then they’ll try our phones. Since only our landlines are in the phone book they’re out of luck. They might think to try Karen at some point, or find someone who knows our personal mobiles, but this buys us a little more time to plan.”

“And the suit? Why would I take it to a sleepover?”

“In case danger strikes and you need to do a rapid superman change.” There’s a grin in his voice that goes terribly with the stench of fear that clings to him. “I don’t know man. I hear Tony Stark takes his suit everywhere with him. You’ll be able to think of some excuse.”

Matt leans back in the too soft armchair. He suddenly feels very small. “What do we do when they call?”

“You stick to my plan. Don’t worry, we’ll hash out the details tonight.”

“I-” The words lodge in his throat. It’s hard to force them out. “What if I mess it up?”

“I’ve got your back Matty.” Foggy’s hand squeezes his arm. “You’ve got one of the best damn avocados on your side.”

***

It’s a bad night.

Matt manages to get his way and sleep in the armchair, saying it’s better for his ribs. Both Karen and Foggy take the bed in the end after Karen insists “Foggy we’re adults. You stay on your side, I stay on mine.” Foggy still puts a wall of pillows between them for gentlemanly sake.

They don’t sleep.

Foggy spends the whole night jotting down ideas, making phone calls, and asking Matt and Karen “what about this?” Karen researches past cases that might be of use. Matt does his best researching nuances of the law to help, but keeps finding himself drifting away to the sound of cats fighting outside or people shouting. A couple upstairs has sex and Foggy spends the next two hours with his hands over Matt’s ears, coaxing him out of a panic attack, instead of doing the work he needs to.

By the time Brett calls at nine am Matt is almost happy the wait is over.

They walk into the station together. Foggy had pointed out repeatedly that just because he and Karen didn’t know about it wouldn’t mean they’d stop being friends. It wouldn’t look suspicious for them to be “supportive when our friend is having a shitty time. That’s what friends do Matt.”

Matt still makes sure to walk ahead of them as he makes his way to the front desk. He uses his cane to make sure no one gets in his way.

Brett is at the desk as they planned. Others are there too. All movement stops as they stand and stare. Matt flushes under the attention, wondering not for the first time what all these pictures of him looked like that everyone recognises him. How many of them saw that video?

“I h-heard-” come on. He can do this. Foggy and Karen stand behind him, close, but not too close. It’ll look better if this is seen as his decision. Deep breath. The mind controls the body. If he can do a back-flip off a roof onto a fire escape, he can say a fucking sentence. “I-I h-heard you were l-looking for me.” And crap, it’s not the smooth delivery he was hoping for, but the words are out there.

“Mr Murdock.” A voice, not Brett’s. Footsteps approach quickly from his right. About as tall as Matt, but a lot wider. Most of it is muscle. He can tell by the way the sound bounces off him. His breath smells of nicotine gum. Anger leeches from his skin. “You are under arrest on suspicion of-”

“I’ll take it from here Wright.” Brett moves quickly, standing between the other man and Matt.

Wright laughs. “Last I checked you didn’t have the authority Mahoney.”

“Clemons is going to take this case,” Brett says. “Murdock already arranged it.”

It’s not strictly true. It’s more Foggy arranged it with Brett who arranged it with Clemons. Matt stays out of it. He figures Brett is in the best position to know which detective will treat him fairly.

“Then read him his rights and I’ll take him to the interview room.” A hand drops on his bad shoulder. It’s light, but it’s still enough to make him wince in pain.

It takes everything he has not to punch the guy in the face. He can’t fight. This isn’t going to work if he fights.

Foggy’s footsteps step up to his side. “Assaulting someone without provocation in front of a dozen uniformed witnesses. Good going, Detective Wright, was it? I’ll thank you to take your hand off my client’s broken shoulder.”

The hand snatches away. “A simple mistake.”

“Of course. A simple mistake. Funny that you missed that since his arm is in a sling,” Foggy says calmly. “We’ll be reporting this.”

Wright’s breathing changes like he’s about to argue, then he turns and walks away.

Foggy’s hand rubbing his arm. “Breathe Matty.”

It’s then he realises he’s not. He struggles for a moment trying to remember how to. People are staring. He can’t have a panic attack in front of all these people. They’re cops. Daredevil is a hero or a villain to them. He’s not a blind guy who loses it because someone touched his shoulder!

Brett’s gaze bores into the side of his head. “Come on. I can read your rights in the interview room. Heck, you turned yourself in. We can save the rights until later.”

Foggy takes his cane, nudging Matt’s arm with his elbow. Matt grips it like it’s a lifeline. They walk. People move out of the way.

There’s a strange contortion in Foggy’s body as he turns around while still following Brett. Probably mouthing a goodbye to Karen. Matt wishes he had the energy to do that. Instead it’s all he can do to keep breathing. Slow breath in. Hold. Let it out. It doesn’t really work. The breaths are anything but slow, but at least air is getting to his lungs. He hopes he doesn’t look too pathetic.

Along a corridor. It smells like industrial cleaner. A door opening. A small room. Two chairs either side of a metal table. The scrape as Brett pulls one out from the table.

Foggy leads him to the chair. He collapses into it too hard. Ouch. Metal chairs are officially the most painful things to sit on ever. Even worse than the floor. He wishes he had Karen’s too soft armchair instead. The thought makes him want to laugh, then cry, then throw up.

Foggy crouches down, rubbing his arm like he’s a child. “Come on buddy. Take a deep breath.”

‘Easy for you,’ he wants to say. ‘You’re not the one feeling like they’re breathing through a fucking straw.’ But he’s got no air to say that, so he breathes instead. One breath that chokes in his chest, then another. Until finally the static clears from his hearing, and he can take normal adult sized breaths.

“Good job Matty,” Foggy says, like breathing is an accomplishment to be proud of. “Keep breathing, OK? I’m going to be with you through the interview. Brett will look out for you if you need to stay longer than that. And I’ll have you out of here by tonight.”

“You don’t know-” he pauses to swallow the panic. The man without fear. That’s what the newspapers used to call him. How can he be the man without fear when he’s drowning in it? “You don’t know that.”

Foggy’s hand cups the back of his neck. Matt reluctantly takes comfort in its warmth. “I know that,” Foggy says, and his heart says truth. “Best damn avocados in the world remember?"


	5. Chapter 5

“Blind. Man. You’ve been lying to me all these years.” Brett’s voice. It’s too far away to be accurate about emotions, but it’s safe to say he’s not happy. “Were you two playing everyone?”

“OK one, Matt is blind. It’s complicated. Very very complicated. I’m not sure I understand it all yet,” Foggy says. They’re a little down the hall. Maybe in one of the empty interview rooms. Matt’s not sure why Foggy allowed Brett to take him somewhere to talk in private. It’s not like he doesn’t know about Matt’s hearing. “Two I only found out two months ago myself. Three, how does any of that matter now?”

“Your best friend is daredevil. Your _blind_ best friend is daredevil. That matters.”

“It doesn’t. It really doesn’t. All those people out there are talking about daredevil. Ever since that video. It’s who is daredevil? When are the police going to do something about daredevil? Like he’s some thing instead of a person. Thousands saw that video Brett. Maybe hundreds of thousands. People saw a man get hurt, and all they want to do is have him paraded in front of them for their entertainment, then locked away. It’s sickening. He tries so hard to help them. He gets hurt saving someone, and what? They laugh at him!” Panting like Foggy’s out of breath.

Silence for a beat. “He’s really taking it bad, isn’t he?”

A snort. “No shit. They raped him Brett. They - did you hear the things they did to him?”

“It’s hard not to.” A cold voice.

“That’s what I’m saying,” Foggy says. “It’s all everyone is talking about. Not that they seem to register what it means. It’s not like he turns into some unfeeling superhero every time he puts on a mask. He’s human. He’s hurt. He needs all the people he can get on his side because God knows there’s enough people lining up against him.”

Air hits his face. He blinks, attention sliding back from Foggy to his body. There’s someone in the room with him. They - movement. A hand waving in front of his face. A real smart move to get the attention of a blind guy.

“Mr Murdock are you all right?” An older voice. Male. He sounds tired. He smells like lint and shoe polish.

Matt nods. His hand is shaking. It rattles the single cuff that joins it to the table.

“I’m Detective Clemons Mr Murdock,” the man says. He sits on the other side of the metal table. “I introduced myself when I came in, but I’m not sure you heard me.”

No use lying. Matt shakes his head. His skin is too hot, but he can’t stop shivering.

The metal creaks as Detective Clemons leans back in his chair. “So you are daredevil?”

Matt’s jaw tenses. He nods.

***

They don’t deny anything.

Karen looked at the summaries. She read several online articles from people who had analysed the video from top to bottom. Many people had asked exactly the same question they had. Is the man in the video really daredevil?

The answer was yes.

People compared eye witness reports, the pictures of daredevil already out there, the design of the suit, the moves he made. The answer was conclusive. The man in the video wore exactly the same suit, he was the same height, the same build, had the same physical features. He had the same distinct fighting style. And most damming of all, the leap from roof to the men surrounding the woman could have been executed by a handful of men in the whole country, and daredevil was one of them.

The next question was could the man in the video be identified as Matt. The answer was also yes. There were several stills from the video. Not all of them were good quality, but enough were that identification was definite.

Last the bloggers had asked if the video had been tampered with. Could the first shot be daredevil, and the other a hapless blind guy dressed in his suit. No. Same location, same time, same injuries. There were many videos that pieced together an ordeal Matt guessed to be several hours. But the first clip showed a seamless passage from daredevil jumping from the roof, fighting, to snarling as he’s wrestled from his suit. Later the police forensic department confirmed what the bloggers had worked out.

Karen hadn’t added in the details of course. She’d said the first section ended after he’d been unmasked, and there were no cut scenes or hints of tampering they could use. Matt’s brain adds in the rest, and he hates it for it.

Denying he’s daredevil now will only hurt them later.

Foggy is a good lawyer. Clemons is a fair detective. He listens carefully to everything Foggy has to say. He leaves the room several times to raise some of Foggy’s better points with the police Captain. Matt starts the interview with multiple charges of terrorism, murder, assault, resisting arrest, and several lesser charges. Foggy presents them with conclusions from Clemons’ own station that put the terrorism and murders on Fisk. The interview ends several hours later with multiple acts of assault, resisting arrest, and the lesser charges still on the table.

Given that everyone knew Fisk’s involvement in the other charges, they shouldn’t have been raised to begin with. Matt can only conclude that someone high up wants him locked away very badly.

It’s not bad work for a few hours, but they’re not in the clear. The multiple assault charges alone could put him away for a long time.

“You’ll be kept until bail is made,” Clemons says. He sounds apologetic. It’s no wonder. The bail is more than Foggy and Matt have ever had in their lives.

Foggy squeezes Matt’s shoulder. “That won’t be long.”

He sounds so confident. Matt wishes he was. This is the part of Foggy’s plan he’s most unsure of. Why would someone risk all that money on him? Someone who they’ve never met before?

“Did you…” Matt frowns. He knows what he wants to say, but the words die in his throat.

‘You’ve heard how he is,” Foggy says. “Everything’s on his schedule. But he’ll come through.”

Matt huffs. It feels strange to pin all his hopes on someone other than Foggy. It feels wrong to ask someone to help him, even if Foggy is asking for him.

“I’m going to go chase him again.” Foggy’s hand traces up the nape of his neck to ruffle his hair. “Hang in there bud.”

Foggy leaves fast. His heart beats worry, and he knows Foggy doesn’t want him to hear.

Shoe polish and lint. Warmth in front of his face. “Will you shake my hand Mr Murdock?”

Matt raises his hand and shakes Detective Clemons weathered one. The handcuff rattles on the table.

“I have a lot of questions Mr Murdock, but I don’t think this is the right time,” Detective Clemons says. “I can’t say I agree with what you’ve done. The law is there for a reason. But we don’t have to look very far to see that it sometimes comes up short.”

Matt turns his head away. His jaw clenches. He knows what Detective Clemons means. It’s Tuesday. The video went viral Sunday night. They’d identified him and had a warrant for his arrest before Monday night. There are no warrants for the arrests of the thugs. As far as he knows the police isn’t even trying to find out who they are. They haven’t asked Matt anything about them.

In their eyes he is the criminal, not them.

“I’m going to get Brett to transfer you to a cell,” Detective Clemons says. “I hope you won’t have to be there very long. Goodbye Mr Murdock.”

Matt opens his mouth to say goodbye back. The words stay coiled in his chest like they’re hiding.

Detective Clemons’ footsteps leave. Opening the door. A firm click as it closes. Matt’s alone.

Less than a minute later footsteps walk down the hallway. Firm and full of purpose. They pause at the door.

Matt frowns. They aren’t Brett’s footsteps.

The door opens. The scent of nicotine gum and anger. Wright. The door closes.

Matt tenses in his chair.

“Hey there daredevil.” Wright leans over him, close enough to catch every last wave of heat wafting off him. It’s a sickly heat swirling with bad mood. It reaches into his throat and chokes him. “You know my best friend got fired because of you?”

If he got fired, it’s because he was on Fisk’s payroll. Matt should say that. He wants to say that, but the words won’t come. He stays sitting in the chair instead.

The punch is obvious. He sees it coming a mile off. Technically he could dodge it. Leap onto the table with the little give the wrist handcuffed to the metal allows. But maybe Wright would take that for an act of aggression.

Foggy said he must not fight.

The punch is sloppy but there’s strength behind it. He doubles over gasping. His ribs roar with pain. He wants to fight back. He could kick the chair out from underneath him, use it as a weapon.

Foggy said he must not fight.

Three more punches to his stomach. Each one hurts a little more than the last. He grits his teeth and doesn’t make a sound.

It won’t help his case if he fights.

Wright grips his bad shoulder, pushing his head to the table. It hurts. It hurts a lot. Wright’s face is in the perfect position. If he whips back his head there’ll be a crunch of bone. A broken nose.

Foggy said he must not fight.

“You’re just as pathetic as that video.” Wright laughs. He presses down until Matt’s bruised cheek is flat against the table. “I saved it to my hard-drive. Watched it a dozen times. You scrapping and scrabbling and swearing you’ll kill all of them. Then you go limp. You stop fighting back. Just lay there. That’s the part I always whack off to.”

Foggy said he must not fight. Foggy said he must not fight. Foggy said he must not fight.

The door opens.

Matt hears it, but Wright doesn’t. The footsteps hesitate in the doorway. A fraction of a fraction of a second. Then the slam of flesh against flesh. A hard noise. Knuckle against jaw. The scent of blood.

Wright stumbles away from him, goes flying across the floor. A stuttered gasp of pain. “You can’t. You can’t do that to me.”

“Oh I think he can,” says a voice behind Brett. A stranger. There’s a coldness to his voice Matt gets the impression isn’t normally there. “I saw the whole thing. You assault a guy handcuffed to a table. Detective Mahoney defends. I imagine he’ll get an award for it after I mention it to the Chief of police at the fundraiser on Saturday, the Captain of this station standing by his side. You on the other hand will not.”

Wright gets to his feet, seems to register the stranger for the first time. “You.”

“Me,” the stranger says. Matt imagines a shark-like grin behind the word.

Wright hurries from the room. His heart hammers like the stranger might set him on fire with a single word.

“Jesus Murdock,” Brett says. He crouches down by the table. “I don’t know how you manage to get in all this trouble, but you’re going to give me a heart attack if you keep it up.”

Matt sits up. His glasses are crooked. He struggles with the handcuff, reaching up to set them straight.

The rattle of keys. Warmth around his wrist as Brett pulls the cuff toward him, fiddling with it. “Why didn’t you fight back?”

Matt opens his mouth expecting the word not to come, but it surprises him. “Foggy.”

Brett snorts. “Of course.” The cuff falls from his wrist. “You two are the most co-dependent assholes I know. And it’s probably a good thing you didn’t take his head off as painful as it is to admit. He’d file the assault charge before you could blink. Hey you’re not going to have a panic attack on me are you?”

The air’s gone from the room, but Matt shakes his head.

“Good because Foggy would kill me.” Brett pauses. “You think you could not tell him about Wright? Because he’d definitely kill me if he knew I left you alone with him. He’d worse than kill me. He’d tell my mother. No one wants that. Christ Murdock, just breathe would you? I’m not a blind ninja whisperer like Foggy. I don’t know how to deal with this.”

Matt doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settles for wrapping his arm around his screaming ribs and forcing in a breath that makes them scream louder.

“God Foggy’s here,” Brett says. “Not a word Murdock. Save it until we write it up later, OK?”

He leaves without waiting for a reply. A good thing since Matt’s not sure what to tell him.

The stranger stands behind him, still like he’s staring. He smells like machine oil and blueberries. His pockets are full of buzzing electronics, and there’s something strange humming from the centre of his chest. His heart is odd. It beats unevenly like there’s scar tissue around it. He walks in front of Matt, silent for a beat. “I like you,” he says as if he’s decided something important. “You’re a bit of a fixer upper, but hey, you’ll need an unhealthy dose of issues to fit in.”

Foggy’s footsteps hesitate in the doorway. “Hey Matty, I see you met Tony Stark.”

***

“So we got a problem,” Foggy says as they walk down the hallway. “There’s reporters everywhere, and I mean everywhere. The front entrance. Every other entrance. I wouldn’t be surprised if some are pressing their noses against the windows.”

“Not a problem,” Tony Stark says. He’s walking so fast that even holding onto Foggy’s elbow Matt’s finding it hard to keep up. It’s a clumsy fast walk. The gait is all over the place. The kind of person you expect walks into a wall at least twice a day. “Here. Wait here. Jarvis has your numbers. He’ll contact you.”

Then he’s gone, disappearing down another corridor toward the front desk.

Matt probes his surroundings. A dead end in front of them. Nothing but a fire door. He hears the heartbeat of three different people outside.

“Told you it would work,” Foggy says.

Matt nods. He swallows the lump in his throat. It still doesn’t make sense in his head. Tony Stark - billionaire Tony Stark paid his bail like it was nothing. And from the phone calls he’d heard Foggy make, he’d had to sign a lot of papers agreeing to supervise Matt and make sure he didn’t leave the state.

Foggy shifts. “What is he doing anyway?”

Matt shifts through the building, looking for that distinctive heartbeat. “He’s outside the front entrance. Calling the reporters over. I think he’s planning on making some kind of speech.”

The three heartbeats outside the fire exit rush to the front of the building. Foggy’s phone beeps.

“Time to move,” Foggy says.

Matt grabs his elbow and they push their way through the fire door. There’s an engine outside. It sounds expensive. The car is big. Long like a limo.

The door opens, and Matt realises in a rush of clean leather, Karen, and alcohol that is it a limo.

“Holy shit,” Foggy says as they scoot inside.

Matt ends up pressed between Karen and Foggy. It’s not like they need to sit that close. The limo is about as big as a limo can get and still be legal to drive on the roads. It’s more the awe and shared fear that they’re going to somehow ruin the perfect leather seats that keeps them together.

The limo crawls forward. Tony Stark makes his speech.

“I’d like to make an important statement regarding the charges brought against Daredevil.” Tony Stark waits for the reporters to quiet down before he starts talking. “You’re all a bunch of assholes. Make sure that gets on CNN.”

Karen’s hand strokes through his hair, and he realises he’s giggling and they’ve no idea why.

The fit stops long before they pause at the front of the station and Tony Stark slides onto the seat opposite theirs.

“Think that was OK? How’s my hair?”

“It’s fine Mr Stark Sir,” Foggy says, his heart quivering with excitement.

Matt can hear the eye roll in Tony Stark’s voice. “Tony. If you guys are going to live with me you’re going to have to get used to calling me Tony.”

“OK Er Tony.” Foggy nudges Matt lightly as if to say ‘how great is this!’

Matt slumps down in his seat. Great things always come at a cost.

“I’ll only be staying a few days,” Karen says. “No one seems to have linked me to all this, so I should be safe at my apartment.”

Matt hopes she’s staying with them to check the coast really is clear at her place, and not because of some need to keep an eye on him.

“Eh,” Tony makes some kind of motion with his arm. “Stay, go. I’ve got plenty of room. It’s not like I’ll notice.”

A dog walks by the road, no human near it. Matt can hear its stomach growling with hunger.

The press of keys, Tony texting something. “Wait till I tell Brucie who I’m bringing back. He’ll be - actually he won’t care. Unless you science. Do you science?”

Foggy nudges Matt again. “Buddy. Tony asked you a question.”

Matt blinks.

“Do you science?” Tony asks.

Matt shakes his head.

Tony lets out an exasperated groan. “Another member for the punching solves all my problems crew. Natasha’s going to be happy. This is terrible.”

Apartment buildings. Snatches of noise blare past. Sizzling of bacon. A girl laughs. A man cries. Music. A washing machine. Old woman talking. Grunting of pleasure as a man-

Matt flinches.

“Hey Matty.” Foggy’s hand on his face. “Focus on us, OK? We’re much more interesting.”

Matt straightens in his seat. He takes a breath, holds it, lets it out. His hand shakes. Karen covers it with her own.

Focus on them. He tries. He focuses on the way Karen’s lungs shudder as she forces laughter from them. She and Tony are talking about - what are they talking about? She’s poking fun. Something about a magazine. Tony takes it well. He seems to like the attention.

Foggy makes a joke and they laugh. Foggy’s hand strokes at the nape of Matt’s neck. He turns, says something to him. Matt can’t work out what it is. He says something again. Matt thinks it might be the same words, but he can’t work out what they mean.

_‘You stop fighting back. Just lay there. That’s the part I always whack off to.’_

Some computer game beeps away. A TV show plays a catchy intro. A music video blaring. A dog barking a Christmas jingle through tinny laptop speakers.

Matt realises what his subconscious mind is doing and shakes his head. He thinks he might say ‘no.’ He tries to focus. Foggy’s smell, the painful feeling of his hand pressed tight to his ear, Foggy’s hands on either side of his face. Foggy says a lot of words. He catches one. ‘Music.’ It drifts away.

An online ad. Something about cars. A tinny voiced girl talking about makeup. Dog. Cat. Gunfire. A jingle. His voice sobbing through someone’s desktop speaker “I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna. I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

Foggy’s hands leave his ears. Matt whimpers. He wants them back. Foggy makes shushing noises.

Plastic in his ears. Foggy’s hands press over the top of them. His head is pulled to a warm chest. There’s rocking like on the floor of the office. Foggy talks into his hair. It’s soothing even though he doesn’t know the words.

Music blasts out of nowhere. A piano. Something classical. Something he thinks he liked once. He flinches, then relaxes. He focuses on the music blaring in his ears, the thrum of Foggy’s heart under his cheek, Foggy’s breath against his hair. He clutches tight and doesn’t let go.


	6. Chapter 6

His silk sheets are smooth against his skin.

Matt blinks groggily, trying to get a gauge on his surroundings. They’re muffled by the silk duvet over his head. Warmth from someone sitting on the bed beside him. A heartbeat. Foggy.

He shifts. The mattress springs move in the same uniform way those in his bed do. It is his bed. But this isn’t his apartment. His apartment smells of dust and rust, and the lemon cleaner he uses to try and chase those smells away. This smells newer, the plaster a faint taste on the back on his throat. Underneath it all is a metallic undertone.

His apartment is an explosion of sound through paper thin walls. This is quieter. There’s virtually no sound from the floor and ceiling. Faint noise comes two walls to his left. A louder noise from the wall above his head. A heartbeat in the next room. Karen. A low constant hum of electricity surrounds it all like a blanket.

What happened? They were in the limo, then?

Matt edges his way out of the tightly wound duvet into fresh air. “I had a panic attack in front of Tony Stark.”

“Yeah you did,” Foggy says, sounding a little sympathetic, but mostly distracted.

Matt frowns. “Is this my bed?”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, still playing with whatever electronic buzzing thing he has in his hand. “Tony had it sent along with the rest of your stuff. Thought you’d be more comfortable. I woke you up when it got here and put you in it. You don’t remember?”

“No.” His head throbs. “Foggy, I had a panic attack in front of Tony Stark, the man who brought me my bed.”

“This is a guilt thing isn’t it?” The rustle of fabric. Foggy putting the electronic thing on his lap. “If it makes you feel any better the guy was more disturbed by your taste in music than the panic attack.”

No, that doesn’t make him feel any better.

“Look, the panic attack ran its course. You zombie walked up here and went to sleep. No one else saw you. And from the looks of things I doubt they’d mind if they did. Everyone here has issues. Me and Pepper had a meeting about it last night.”

Last night. That doesn’t make sense. They left the station early afternoon. Last night he, Foggy, and Karen camped out at Karen’s place. Unless. “How long did I sleep?”

Shuffling as Foggy checks his watch. “It’s ten am, Wednesday morning.”

He does the math. Eighteen hours. His mouth is dry. “Was I awake for any of it?”

“A couple hours.” Foggy’s voice says it’s not a big deal, his heart disagrees. “You were pretty out of it. Didn’t say much.”

Somehow that’s worse. He searches for any memory of those couple hours. Nothing. “What did I say?”

A stutter in Foggy’s heart. A choke to his voice. “You kept saying you were sorry and begging me not to leave.”

Matt flinches. “I’m sor-”

“No!” Foggy gets up from the bed. A rustle of hair as he runs a hand through it. His heart hammers fast in his chest. “Don’t say that. Stop saying that. OK? Just. We need to talk Matt.”

Matt pushes himself into a sitting position. “O-OK Foggy.”

The mattress dips as Foggy sits next to his legs. “That statement Tony made really helped us out. You’ve got supporters protesting against your treatment. Hash-tag savedaredevil is trending on twitter. They want the charges against you dropped. They want those bastards in the video strung up. There’s a big following. And I know we’ve never dealt with a case as politically fuelled as this one, but Pepper has. And from what she says, a big part of the outcome is going to come down to how much of the public you have on your side. We need that following Matt. There’s just one problem.”

Matt leans back against the pillow. His heart beats a rhythm of dread in his chest. He knows what the problem is.

Foggy’s hand squeezes Matt’s. “We need to do this right. We need to press charges buddy.”

“We.” Prickling starts at the back of his eyes. “I.” He swallows. “I should’ve done that from the start.”

“I understand why you didn’t Matty. This daredevil thing…”

“No.” He shakes his head. Something wet trails down his cheek. “It wasn’t because of that. I don’t remember Foggy. I don’t remember how I got home. I was just there in the shower. Then I didn’t remember what happened until the hospital. The plaster drying. But then I remembered, and I didn’t do anything about it. I didn’t. I washed everything off. I ignored it. The woman they attacked. She ran away. And I ran away. I wasn’t supposed to be like that Foggy.” The words tumble out one after the other. His chest hitches between every word.

“Breathe Matty.” Foggy sounds like he might be crying too.

He hasn’t cried since the hospital. Screamed, yes. Struggled to breathe, yes. But not cried. It wants to come out of him all at once, fighting with the words he needs to say. “The video. If. If it hadn’t. No one would know. I wouldn’t have told. They would’ve hurt other people. And it would’ve been my fault because I just ignored it. I just fucking ignored it Foggy! I didn’t even. I didn’t even try to stop them hurting anyone else!”

Foggy’s arms wrap around him. He’s pulled into a warm shoulder. Foggy’s scent surrounds him. Strawberry shampoo and coffee. It’s safe. That’s the best way to describe it. Matt wants to stay here forever. How many hugs is this? How many times has he broken down in his friend’s arms? How much can he expect Foggy to keep giving him?

“You need so much therapy buddy,” Foggy says, his voice breaking. “You went through something bad Matt. You’re allowed to be a little less than perfect.”

Matt clutches Foggy’s t-shirt in his left hand. Burying his face in his friend’s neck, he hiccups, and sobs, and clings like a stupid baby. Stick would sneer at him if he knew. Then it stops. All that emotion drains out of him all at once, leaving a gaping hole behind.

He leans against Foggy’s chest, trying to find the energy to do something other than breathe.

Foggy’s hand runs over his back. He tries to remember what he did to deserve a friend as nice as him. “Look buddy,” Foggy says, voice wet. “I’m not going to deny that you pressing charges, making a statement, all that stuff won’t help. It will. It will help a lot. People, all they see is daredevil. They see a mask. And it’s too easy to lock away someone you don’t think is human. We need to remind them there’s a man behind the mask. But this is a really big thing I’m asking. I want you to think about it. Not just about who might get hurt, but about whether this might hurt you. We could get by with the video but-”

Matt feels empty. The salt on his cheeks feels out of place. He huffs against Foggy’s neck. “They might use my lack of cooperation against me. Try to twist it into something it’s not.”

He gets where Foggy is coming from. The public need something simple. He’s either a vigilante or a victim. They already know the vigilante part. Foggy wants to shine the spotlight on the thugs. Remind the world of the victim side of Matt. He hates it.

“Yeah,” Foggy says, sounding reluctant. “But I want you to be sure.”

It’s the right thing to do. And with his identity out in the open there’s no reason not to do it. How can he believe in bringing people to justice if he doesn’t help bring his own attackers to justice? “I’m sure.”

***

“Arm,” Claire says.

He sits on the couch, back resting against Foggy’s chest. Foggy’s arm is wrapped around his middle just tight enough to be comforting. His body feels like it weighs a hundred tons. His arm when he raises it feels at least half that.

Claire fusses for a minute, complaining about how baggy his hoodie is, and how much work she has to do to “stop it falling down your skinny arm.” Then the injection is done. He can feel it flooding through his veins. She sits back, zipping up her medical kit, snapping off her gloves. “That’s the first hep B done. You’ll need another injection in a month, then another six months after. Got that?”

Matt nods.

She sighs, the sound of fabric against skin. She’s rubbing her hands over her slacks. “You keep up with them we shouldn’t have to worry about hepatitis B. Those antibiotics I gave you should prevent gonorrhoea, chlamydia, and other trichomonas. You been taking the HIV meds?”

He starts to nod, then shrugs his good shoulder.

He can feel the glare she levels at him. “You either have or you haven’t.”

“I didn’t see him take anything yesterday,” Foggy says. There’s a click in his throat like he’s swallowing down some emotion. “We got kind of caught up.”

Maybe Matt should’ve made Foggy leave the room along with Karen. But they’d settled out here shortly after they’d called Claire, and it’s comfy. Matt wants to lie here a little longer.

“You took them before that?” She asks.

He nods.

“They make you nauseous?”

Another nod.

“Bad?”

Another nod. Foggy’s arm tightens around his middle.

“OK,” Claire says. “I’ll drop another anti nausea med around for you to try. Let me know how it goes. With all this out in the open I get to do it legally for once. Which you did not hear.” A quick motion of her arm.

Foggy nods against his head. “No mam. Nothing illegal or untoward heard.”

“Good.” She gets to her feet. “OK Matt. I’ll be back in a week to see if we can think about taking off that splint from your fingers. Leave it alone until then. HIV tests are usually done six weeks after, three months after, then six months after the assault. So you don’t have to worry about me taking your blood for a while. Preventative meds should take care of other possible infections, but contact me if you notice anything odd. Discharge, ongoing pain, a lot of constipation. Any of those happening now?”

Matt turns his attention to the sleeve of Foggy’s jacket. The material is soft, but not as soft as he likes his own clothes to be. He makes a face, then shakes his head.

“Matt unless you’re going to finally talk to a doctor about this, you need to talk to me.” Her voice is lower. Crouching down. “Still pain?”

He rubs Foggy’s sleeve between his fingers. A nod.

“Has it improved since the last time we spoke?”

Another nod.

“Bleeding?”

He shakes his head.

“Infection cleared up?”

A nod, then a shrug.

“Mostly cleared up,” she translates.

He nods.

“OK. I’d really like it if Olivia could take a look during the exam. She’s really nice. Ridiculously nice. It’s sickening really. Ugh, and she’s gotten so much worse since the pregnancy announcement. Everything is sunshine and roses. It’s terrible. But she’s really good at what she does. She won’t do anything without asking first and getting your permission. She’ll talk you through everything she’s doing as she’s doing it. I promise you her people skills are much better than mine.”

Matt picks at Foggy’s sleeve. Foggy’s arm is shaking. He puts a hand over it to still it.

“Think about it, OK?”

Matt nods.

***

The medical floor smells like hospitals. He hates it.

Things moved fast after they called Claire. She knew someone perfect to carry out the exam. They were both free that day. Foggy hadn’t been sure. He’d said that Matt might need some time to prepare. Matt hadn’t agreed. If he’s going to do this, he might as well get it over with.

Olivia introduces herself. She seems nice. She smells like honey, her every word sounds like a smile even when he thinks she’s not smiling. There’s a strong second heartbeat coming from her abdomen.

The exam takes place in a small room near the back of the medical floor. She takes time before to make sure he knows the way to the nearest elevator. Then she sets up chairs both directly outside the room, and in a nearby examination room. If he leaves, she says, she won’t follow him. She’ll stay in the examination room until either the exam ends or he decides to end it prematurely and leaves the floor. If he can’t be in the room any longer, he can wait just outside with Foggy or in the other examination room until he feels he can continue.

There’s a bed for him to lie down on for some of the examination, or he can stand. In the corner of the room farthest from the bed is a small table and chair with a jug of water. It’s for when he needs a break. He can take as many breaks he wants, even when she’s part way through something. A roll out screen blocks the table from the rest of the room if he wants privacy.

“Because it’s been a week this won’t take as long as it usually does,” Olivia says. She doesn’t move while she’s speaking. She keeps her arms very still. “I still want to take hair and blood samples in case forensics find viable samples to compare them to, but we can leave those until another time if you want.”

Foggy had raised hell with the police station and got them to process his suit for evidence. The boxers he wore that night were buried in the suit. He must have stripped them all off together that night before getting in the shower.

“Today’s really about documenting injuries,” Olivia says. “I’ll ask you to take off one piece of clothing at a time. Then put it back on before we move to the next part so as much of you is clothed at all times. There may be a chance I might have to touch you at some point to get a better view of an injury, but for most of it I’ll keep my hands to myself and ask you to position yourself so I can do the exam with my eyes only. If it turns out I do have to touch you, I’ll ask your permission beforehand. You can say no. We can even move on and come back to it later. I’ll tell you exactly where my hand is going to go and for how long. No surprises. If you need to take a break just make a noise or raise a hand. I’ll stop and back away. Do you understand?”

He nods. He understands.

“If you change your mind and want your friend in here, tell me at any point. Or you can fetch him yourself. He’s right outside.”

Matt hears Foggy’s heartbeat, fast with nerves on the other side of the wall. He shakes his head. Foggy’s already done too much. He can do this on his own.

“OK,” Olivia says. She still doesn’t move, staying a good distance away from him. “Are you ready to start?”

He nods. He can do this.

It’s not as bad as he thought it would be. She photographs his face first, then notices without him telling her that he feels uneasy without the glasses covering his eyes. She asks if he’d like to put them back on and he wears them for the rest of the exam. She takes hair and blood samples first after establishing that needles don’t bother him.

Then comes the hoodie. She photographs him from all angles, telling him which part she’s doing when. The bruises across his ribs and back. The marks on his waist and hips. She even notices bruises on his neck and arms that he hadn’t paid attention to among all the others.

His hoodie goes back on. His sweatpants come off next. Photographs of his legs and ankles. She spends a lot of time on his thighs. From the heavy feeling below the skin, he guesses they’re as bruised as his hips. Then his boxers. She stays in one spot with the camera, asking him to turn when she needs him to. She asks if he wants a break several times. He always shakes his head.

There are a lot of injuries.

She asks to touch him only once, and it’s over as quickly as she says it will be. She stays in her spot when she asks him to get dressed, and doesn’t move an inch until boxers and sweatpants are back in place.

“If you’d gone to the doctors straight after they would have given you stitches,” she says carefully once he’s dressed. “You’re going to end up with scar tissue. That may not affect anything at all, but it’s something to be aware of in case problems crop up in the future. Are you experiencing any incontinence or weakening of the bowels?”

He shakes his head. His good hand twitches by his side.

“That’s good,” she says. “We can’t tell how much internal damage there is without an examination, but if you’re experiencing no problems like that then you should be fine. Contact a doctor or Claire if that changes. I know it’s embarrassing but there are things that can be done to help. And if the pain isn’t gone within another week you need to tell someone. OK?”

He nods shakily.

“Any questions?”

A shake of the head.

“Then don’t be polite. Go and do something fun to relax. You earned it.”

He’s out of the room before she finishes speaking. Foggy’s heartbeat stutters as Matt walks past. The clatter of a chair as Foggy rushes to his feet.

“Hey,” Foggy jogs to catch up, out of breath. “Did you finish?”

Matt nods. He stops where he knows the elevator must be. A hum of electronics. His hand skims the wall searching for the button, finds it.

“That’s good Matty. Great in fact. How was - oh, I guess you don’t want to talk about it.”

A ping as the elevator arrives on their level. The doors open. They step inside.

Matt shakes his head.

Foggy’s phone rings. The sudden noise in an enclosed space makes Matt jump.

“Sorry bud,” Foggy says, clicking a button on the phone. The press of plastic against skin. “Hey Pepper, what is it?”

Matt tries to listen to the other end of the conversation, but all he gets is a female voice talking fast. It’s hard to focus.

“What!” Anger enters Foggy’s voice. “You’re kidding me? Really? They think? I know what they say they’re doing, but it’s still not a good time. No. He’s not ready for something like that.”

Talking about him. There’s a dull feeling in the emptiness of his chest. It’s nothing like the burning anger he’s used to but it’s still enough to cut up his insides. He pushes Foggy lightly on the arm.

“Hang on a minute,” Foggy says, presumably into the phone. “Look Matt, it’s nothing. News got through to the police station about what we’re doing. They want to send a couple of officers to interview you about the attack. It can wait.”

Matt shakes his head.

“Come on Matty,” Foggy says quietly, like he doesn’t want the woman on the phone to hear. “You’re shaking. You’re totally exhausted. This can wait until tomorrow at least.”

Matt clenches his hand, trying to get the shaking to decrease. He shakes his head. He can do this.

“Matty please.”

Matt sets his jaw, attempts to direct his gaze in Foggy’s direction.

Foggy sighs. “Sure Pepper. Set it up.”


	7. Chapter 7

Matt skims his fingers over the paper Pepper sent.

It’s a list. There are three categories. Never OK. Sometimes OK (ask first). Always OK. There’s one for every person living in the tower, even Pepper. Foggy’s right. He’s not the only one here with issues.

Foggy said Pepper told him it was fine if it took a little while to remember everyone’s triggers. But Matt wants to do his best. It’s the least he can do. It’s not like he’ll ever be able to pay Tony back for keeping him out of jail.

The couch dips as Foggy sits down next to his feet. “Still on Bucky’s huh? It’s a long one.”

It is a long one. The Never OKs cover over half a page. Some of them are peculiar. ‘Never stand over me when I’m sitting down.’ ‘Never give me a direct order unless myself or others are in immediate danger.’ ‘Never open the freezer or other source of cold if I’m standing nearby.’

Karen stops opening and closing the cupboards in the small kitchenette area attached to the living room. Her muscles tense at the same time as Foggy’s, like there’s a silent communication going on between them.

“If I may.” The voice appears from the ceiling. A speaker near the kitchenette area, another near the apartment door, another near the second bedroom. It’s disorientating.

Foggy rubs his leg. “Just Jarvis buddy.”

A pause like the voice is flustered. “I’m sorry to have startled you Mr Murdock. I merely wished to inform you that now might be an appropriate time to visit the communal floor. The only other residents currently in the building are Sir, Doctor Banner, and Sergent Barnes. Sir and Doctor Banner expect to be engaged in the lab for the next several hours. Sergent Barnes is on the communal floor playing video games.”

The rustle of hair as Karen tilts her head. “We do need to get some food.”

“Up to you Matt,” Foggy says. “We’ve got enough in our kitchen to piece something together. Or we can see what’s downstairs.”

“There is currently half a pizza in the communal fridge, along with ingredients to make most meals you may desire,” Jarvis says.

“I think we’ll need something bland,” Foggy says. His hand continues to rub up and down Matt’s ankle. “And quick. We don’t have long until the police get here.”

Matt shakes his head. “Not - not…”

Foggy snorts. “Not gonna work bud. I let you off the hook this morning, and last night. Jesus Matty. I don’t think you’ve eaten since yesterday morning, and that wasn’t much. You are eating something.”

“The communal kitchen is stocked with fresh oatmeal,” Jarvis says.

“Perfect.” Foggy pats Matt’s ankle. “So, we going to eat it down there, or do you want me to bring some up for you.”

Matt grumbles, shifting on the couch. His ribs complain.

“Didn’t hear that Matty.” There’s a stubborn tone in Foggy’s voice. Matt isn’t going to win this one.

He reluctantly pushes himself up from the couch. The leather is stiffer than the one back in his apartment, but similar enough that he wonders if Tony bought it with his couch in mind.

“Great,” Foggy says with forced cheer. “Let’s go meet the famous Bucky Barnes.”

***

It’s impossible not to have heard of Bucky.

The newspapers went crazy when it leaked that Captain America took the Winter Soldier into his home. They went even crazier when a press release revealed the Winter Soldier, who had caused chaos in DC was in fact Captain America’s old friend Bucky Barnes. That was nine months ago.

Matt heard enough people talking about it to give him a headache. People were seething. They wanted Bucky to pay for what the Soldier had done.

Then Captain America did an interview.

He talked about his friend, their childhood, their time together in the war. He skirted over the brainwashing, the mind wipes, the orders. Just enough information to drum home that Bucky Barnes was a prisoner of war, and had no choice in what he did. Lastly he mentioned how he was doing now. How Bucky was trying so hard in therapy. How he remembered more and more every day. The interviewer asked if he was proud of his friend. Captain America had nodded, tears in his eyes.

Public opinion changed after that. Not all at once. There were other interviews. A documentary with old footage that Foggy talked about for weeks afterwards. An auction of some sketches of Bucky with various members of the Avengers. Several pictures on Tony Stark’s and Hawkeye’s tumblr that had Foggy and Karen giggling and awing. Last Matt heard the final decision hadn’t been made, but most of the charges against Bucky were dropped.

“I forgot to mention,” Foggy says as they walk out of their apartment into the hallway. “That door opposite ours belongs to Falcon, Sam Wilson. The apartment to the right of it belongs to Captain America and Bucky Barnes. Apparently the empty apartment next to ours was supposed to be Bucky’s but they wanted to share. Each door will only open for the people who live there. So unless there’s a medical emergency only me, you, and Karen can get in ours.”

Matt shouldn’t feel as relieved as he does to hear that.

The elevator doors open. They get in. They go down.

Jarvis announces the floor they arrive at. A neat feature. He wonders if he does that for everyone, or just him.

The communal floor smells like popcorn and cold pizza. Matt grips Foggy’s elbow, wishing he had his other hand to use the cane. His senses are acting up. They’re all there, but he can’t get them to fit right in his head. He can hear the sound-waves bouncing off things, but can’t concentrate enough to piece together what they mean.

A heartbeat across the room. It’s elevated. A tenseness of muscles. The blare of computer generated cries of pain. The ratatat of gunfire that sounds so fake. And a strange noise under it all. The muffled whirling of machinery from the man’s right arm.

“Hey you must be Bucky,” Foggy says. There’s excitement in his voice. Of course. This is Captain America’s best buddy Bucky. Even Matt read one or two of the comics as a kid between all that studying and homework.

The fake gunfire continues. Two hands tap at plastic. One sounds flesh, the other not. Metal, he thinks.

“It’s nice to meet you Bucky,” Karen says. Her voice is confident, but her heart flutters.

Bucky grunts. He doesn’t stop playing his game.

Matt lets go of Foggy’s arm, stepping deeper into the room. He listens to the sound-waves from the video game, watches how they bounce off the walls. The room is big. Some large object Bucky’s sitting on. The smell of a leather couch. The scent of food and hum of machinery on the wall opposite the elevators. A large object to his right. Wood polish. A table.

Karen’s footsteps echo a path to the kitchen area. They bounce off a long counter he’d missed. The opening of a cupboard.

Matt takes his cane out of the pocket in the front of his hoodie. He fiddles with it, frustration filling the empty spaces inside him surprisingly quickly. How is he supposed to unfold the thing with only one hand?

“Here man, let me.” Foggy takes the cane. A series of clicks. He hands it back.

Matt opens his mouth to say thank you and the words don’t come out.

“This thing this afternoon,” Foggy says. His heart flutters like he’s nervous. “You know you don’t have to do it, right?”

Matt clenches his jaw, nods. The cane sweeps the floor, finding each chair that sits around the table.

“You can change your mind any time.”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to.

Karen moves around in the kitchen area. The clang of bowls. The rattle of oatmeal against a plastic container.

“Matt.” Foggy lowers his voice. “I don’t think you’re ready for this.”

He nods. He can do this.

The creak of wood. Foggy leaning against one of the chairs. A note of anger in his voice. “If you’re so sure, then tell me you’re ready.”

Matt nods. He’s ready.

“No.” Foggy’s muscles tense. The words escape his mouth in a hiss. Angry. “Tell me Matt. Say the words.”

Bucky’s fingers stop clicking the game controller. They start up again a moment later.

Matt reaches out, tries to find the words. They don’t choke in his throat like they sometimes do. They don’t get that far. He looks and looks, but they just - aren’t - there.

Skin against skin. Foggy rubbing a hand across his face. “Sorry Matty, that was-”

“Sorry for the interruption,” Jarvis says suddenly. The voice spills into the room from three different locations. “Agents Barton and Romanova have arrived back and are heading to the communal floor now. Would you like me to delay them?”

The hum of a microwave.

“You can go if you want,” Karen says quickly. “I can take this back to our apartment.”

“Maybe that’s best,” Foggy says, a pleading note replacing the anger. “Come on buddy, you’ve done a lot today. We can meet them later.”

No he hasn’t. He lay in bed most of the morning, had a simple medical exam, then lay on the couch for another chunk. He hasn’t even exercised. He hasn’t even meditated. Pulling out a chair, he sits down.

Foggy sits in the chair opposite his. “Matt.”

He’s not some scared little child. Stick trained him to be a soldier. He can handle meeting two new people. He tries to convey that to Foggy without using his words.

Karen’s footsteps. The smell of warm oatmeal. The clang of a bowl set in front of him. The metallic clatter of a spoon. “It’s plain,” she says. “There’s sugar I could put on it, or spices or some dried fruit.”

Matt shakes his head. His stomach is rolling enough as it is. Best to keep things simple.

“How about some cinnamon?” Foggy asks, his voice tired. “You always have cinnamon with your oatmeal.”

Matt shakes his head, picks up the spoon.

A whoosh sound as the elevator doors open. Two new heartbeats. One flutters with nerves when they see him. The other stays steady.

Foggy accepts a bowl from Karen. His oatmeal is doused with strawberry jam. It smells more jam than oatmeal. Karen sits in the seat next to Matt. Her oatmeal has honey.

The nervous heartbeat moves toward them. He’s fast. His body moves gracefully. Someone used to relying on his body to do what he tells it to. Then about half way to the table he stumbles over his own feet and smacks the floor with his face. Matt blinks. He’s listening to the whole thing and he’s no idea how it happened.

Karen leaps up from her chair. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah fine.” Shuffling as the man pushes himself to his feet. The scent of dog surrounds him like a cloud. “Not my finest introduction. Not my worst either. I’m Clint Barton. I mean, Clint. Call me Clint.”

“You’re an idiot is what you are.” The steady heartbeat moves past, heading for the kitchen area. She walks like a dancer. Every movement is pure grace. It makes Clint look like the klutz his stumble made him out to be.

“And that lovely lady is Natasha.” He moves closer to the table. His heart sounds like it’s trying to beat its way out of his chest. “You must be Matthew, right?”

Matt makes a face.

Foggy laughs. It doesn’t last long, but it’s nice to hear it. “Matt. He answers to Matt.”

Trust Foggy to make him sound like a dog.

“Right, Matt. I get it. My real name is Clinton. Clinton Francis Barton. And I don’t know why I told you that. Only that Clinton sounds terrible, and Clint sounds way better.” The rustle of short hair as Clint runs a hand through it. “I’m sorry. I’m just really psyched to meet you. I've been following you for a while. Y'know, before this whole thing. Oh crap, I said something wrong, didn't I?"

Matt's fingers clutch the spoon so tight, the new skin on his knuckles complain. It's a painful reminder. These people know everything that happened to him. Every little detail, like the rest of the world. To them he's never going to be anyone but the guy in that video.

"Barton!" Bucky calls out above the sounds of fake screams and gunfire. His voice has a drawl to it. A stronger version of the Brooklyn accent that comes out of Captain America's mouth when he's caught off guard in interviews. "Get your ass over here and watch me beat your high score."

"What! No!" It comes out as a whine. Fast movement. Feather light footsteps as Clint rushes over the couch and hops over it. The groan of leather as he lands neatly beside Bucky. "You're from the 1940s! You're not allowed to be this good at video games!"

Foggy sighs. "Eat your food buddy."

Matt forces himself to eat. The oatmeal sticks in his throat. His hand shakes.

***

Foggy hovers in the room with Matt.

He sets up the braille keyboard and laptop. He shifts the water glass around on the table, then remembers there will be other people here than Matt and disappears to get more glasses and a jug.

All of it puts Matt even more on edge.

"I'm-" he manages to say before his throat closes up. The wooden table is smooth under his fingers. The room smells like leafy plants. It's only him and Foggy here right now. He should be able to talk. "I'm fi-"

"If you can't even say you're fine, then you're not fine Matt." Foggy's feet pacing around the small room. His heart shudders. Sadness? Worry? It's one of them. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Matt nods. He has to.

Foggy sighs. Skin against wood. He leans on the table. "Promise me after this you'll rest? No more excitement for tonight. You take your pills. We'll watch a movie OK?"

Another nod.

The door opens. It lets the sounds outside the small room blare in. They're on one of the business floors. Quiet. Not that many people working. Foggy said it's the same floor the Avengers go to meet with their therapists. Matt hopes that was an interesting aside, and not a hint that he should start thinking about getting his own shrink.

Two new heartbeats. One is familiar.

Foggy must recognise him too, because his clothing rustles as he leans closer to Matt. "Matty, you can change your mind."

Matt shakes his head.

Foggy lets out a huff of air that sounds like it escapes between clenched teeth. A firm pat on Matt's back, then his footsteps leave the room. "I'll be right outside." It sounds like a warning.

The door closes behind him. Matt listens to his heartbeat through the wall, tracks it to where Karen's heartbeat pulses fast.

"Mr Murdock." The stranger moves to the table opposite him. The scrape of chairs as they sit down. They're close enough that Matt can feel traces of their body heat leech into his skin. He wishes they were further away. "I'm Detective Kelly, this is Detective Wright."

Matt's stomach clenches at the smell of nicotine gum. He's glad Detective Kelly didn't ask to shake his hand, otherwise he'd have to shake Wright's as well.

The shuffling of material. A zip opening. The clank of hard plastic against wood as something is placed on the table. "Usually we record audio for these type of things, but since I hear you're having trouble speaking I'd like to record video as well."

Video. He flinches.

Hesitation enters Detective Kelly's voice. She sounds - not caring, but not impersonal either. Professional. A scent of fresh dry cleaning clings to her. "Unless you're uncomfortable with that. We can do this lots of ways. You can speak and I can audio record. Or you can write out a statement. I just thought that video would cover more bases. You can nod, shake your head, and use your tablet. We can help you piece together a statement from that, and you can sign it if you agree. That way you can use whichever method of communication that works best for you."

It makes sense. And it's only a video camera. What, is he going to be terrified of being captured on video for the rest of his life? It's not like that's not going to happen living in New York City. And given how Jarvis picked up on him startling earlier, the tower has to be filled with hundreds of cameras.

Matt tries to ignore how that thought makes his throat close up.

Detective Kelly's voice, softer this time. "Do you want to me to use the camera?"

He nods.

The camera is digital. It beeps as she sets it up. Then a click. A kind of electronic stutter as it figures out what it's supposed to do. Each noise is like a drill through his skull. He takes a breath and it tastes of grime, blood, sweat, and terror.

She introduces everyone in the room, asks him to confirm for the camera that his name is Mathew Michael Murdock. He nods.

"What were you doing the night of the March 15th?" Wright asks. His voice sounds reasonable, but his heart beats fast, his muscles are too tense. How did he manage to get placed on this case? Didn't they hear what he did?

Matt's fingers find the braille keyboard. 'Patrolling.'

"I'm sorry about this," Detective Kelly says. Her heart says lie, but there's not much emotion attached to it. This is just a part of her job. "But we need to ask what happened before and after the attack, not just during. It helps us get an accurate idea of the sequence of events. I'm going to ask what you did in the hour leading up to the assault."

'Stopped a mugging,' he types. There had been a fight too that he hasn't gotten involved with. Both sides were drunk and equally matched. A man beating up his wife in their apartment. He'd taken note of the address and decided there was nothing he could do until later. 'And a group of teenagers beating up a homeless guy.'

"Stopped them?" Wright asks. There's a sneer to his voice. "You mean you beat the crap out of them?"

'Knocked the mugger unconscious. Tied him up. Called the police. The teenagers ran as soon as they saw me. I didn't touch them. They were scared enough. Learnt their lesson.'

"Can you tell me about the moments leading up to the attack?" Detective Kelly asks.

The assault. The attack. The words make him swallow. But he can do this. He's not the first person to get r- to get hurt. People give statements like this all the time, and they talk for them like a functioning human being.

His heart hammers in his chest. 'I heard a woman scream. Men laughing. Fabric ripping. They were tearing her clothes off. She was terrified. I jumped down. Pulled one away from her. Punched another. She ran away. Punched a different one.'

His hand shakes too hard to use the keyboard. Matt pulls it away. Clenches and unclenches it, trying to get it to work.

"How did you know they were attacking her if you're blind?" Cloth against cloth. Wright crossing his arms over his chest.

The oatmeal bubbles up in his throat. He swallows down the nausea. He doesn't want to say anymore. He doesn't want to tell Wright what happened. He points to his ears.

"You heard her?" Disbelief in his voice.

Matt nods.

Wood creaking as Wright shifts. "How do you know she wasn't in on it? Having a good time?"

Matt reaches for the keyboard to type that he smelled her fear, but his fingers shake too much. He grits his teeth in frustration.

"Maybe we can try something else," Detective Kelly says quickly. Her heart beats too fast in her chest. This interview isn't going like she wants it to. "Can you tell me about your attackers? How many were there?"

Matt raises a hand with five trembling fingers, then closes it and raises one more. A shrug of his good shoulder.

"Six," Detective Kelly says. "But you're not sure."

He nods to confirm.

A laugh from Wright. It sounds ugly. "You're not sure how many dicks were up your ass? Seems like something you should know."

Matt grips the edge of the table hard, imagines himself tipping it up, swinging it into Wright's face. The crush of bone. The explosion of blood. He doesn't move.

A click as the camera is turned off.

"Detective Wright," Detective Kelly's voice turns cold. "I need to have a talk with you outside."

The slam of flesh against wood. Wright placing his hands on the table. "Knock this joke of a case off Murdock. No one's going to lock those guys away. You're the one who attacked them. You deserved it."

Air stings like needles in his lungs.

"Wright!" The last of Detective Kelly's professional air shatters.

A grin to Wright's voice. "Or maybe we've got this whole thing wrong? Maybe you were in on it? Some act you put on to get attention. Or a bit of role-play gone wrong. Funny how it's only after the video came out that you decide to give a statement. What? You get in a fight with one of your boyfriends and they put it online? So you try and save face and say you didn't want it? I've got to say you're one sick asshole if you have to get that bloodied up to get off."

"Outside!" Detective Kelly screams. "Now!"

"I bet you liked it," Wright says, as his footsteps retreat. "Bet you fucking loved it."

The door opens. Angry questions from Karen and Foggy outside. The door closes.

"I'm sorry about that," Detective Kelly says. She sounds a lot younger than she did before. Unsure. Confused. "I don't know how he got assigned to this case. He's not even from the right department."

Matt's chest hurts. It's hard to get a full breath. Gripping the edge of the table he forces himself to. It's not like he's injured. Wright didn't hit him. It's just words. He can't get this worked up over a bunch of stupid words.

"Try to type up some descriptions if you can." Detective Kelly's heart flutters with nerves. The scrape of card against wood as she puts something in front of him. "My email's on there. It's secure. Send me what you have. I'll print them out. We can go through them to make sure you agree with them, then sign. And the rest...I'll be in contact OK?"

Matt nods his head shakily. His hand finds his hoodie, grips the soft material.

Shuffling of plastic and cloth as she packs away the camera. Her footsteps move away from him fast, as if she can forget what just happened if she puts some distance between them.

Foggy's footsteps, followed by Karen. Anger and worry floods off them in a mix thick enough to make him choke.

"What happened?" That steel is back in Karen's voice. The kind that comes when she senses an injustice she wants to put right. "We heard yelling. What did they do?"

He grips the hoodie harder and focuses on breathing.

"Matty." Foggy's hand rubs small circles on his good arm. The steel's in his voice too. "What happened?"

Matt pushes Foggy's hand away, concentrates on getting his breathing under control on his own.

***

"I'm gonna - I'm gonna stay here."

Foggy's heart skips with surprise, then drops to a more stable rhythm than before. Pleased. "That's good Matt. I mean, today's been a big day. Nothing wrong with pacing yourself."

"Anything in particular you want us to get you?" Karen calls from outside the bedroom.

Matt shrugs, his hand twisting his silk duvet. The motion helps.

"I'll bring you back the blandest option," Foggy says, standing in the doorway. "That all right?"

Matt nods. It's not like he's going to be able to eat much of it. He's not hungry.

Karen's footsteps move away toward the door of the apartment. Her heartbeat flutters with excitement. No wonder. It's not every day you get to have dinner with the Avengers. Everyone but Thor is going to be there. Even Matt might be able to dredge up a little excitement if he wasn't so aware of the reason why they're hiding out in the tower.

He wonders whether any of the Avengers watched the video. Cold shoots down his spine.

"We'll be back soon bud," Foggy says, still hovering in the doorway. "Really soon."

"I'm fine Foggy." Matt tries for a smile, but can't remember how they work. "Go enjoy yourself. Talk to Captain America."

Foggy's heart-rate doubles. "Matt. I'm about to eat dinner with Captain America."

"You're about to eat dinner with Captain America," Matt says solemnly.

"Holy shit."

"You're about to swear in front of Captain America."

"You're right, I need to work on that." Foggy's footsteps move unsteadily to the door like he's in shock.

The door closes. They leave. Matt follows their heartbeats to the elevator, then loses them as they go down.

He shuffles on the bed, gritting his teeth at the protest his ribs make as he leans over. There. Plastic under his fingers. He grabs the laptop and attached braille keyboard.

The interview went terribly. It took him long enough to calm down afterwards that Foggy and Karen were making hushed questions about whether they should call someone. He hadn't told them why he lost it. He thinks in the end they were just so relieved he got himself under control that they didn't want to push it.

Like he's made of glass. Like he'll shatter if they say the wrong thing.

This wouldn't have happened if he had better control over himself. The mind controls the body. So he should've made his body breathe, made his arm stay steady, made his voice answer the questions. It's not like it's rocket science. Things happened. He just needs to talk about those things, and he'll help put the men away. They won't hurt anyone else like they were about to do to that woman.

He just needs to talk dammit!

He takes a long deep breath, ignoring his ribs. It isn't ideal. He should be able to do more. But if he types out the descriptions he has, they'll have something to go on. For all he knows the video footage alone might not be enough to get any IDs. There were several clear views of his face. He knows that. But he hasn't heard anyone talk about seeing anyone else's face.

Is that because they only kept the camera on him? Or because no one cares about who they are, or what they did?

His hand finds the keyboard. Typing with his left hand isn't easy. It slows him down enough that he has to spend several seconds on each word. He doesn't want to spend that much time dwelling on what he's saying.

He keeps to the facts.

'1) Smells like cheap beer, cheap cigarettes, bubblegum, basketballs, books. About two inches taller than me. Muscled but not bulky. Moves like an athlete. Shaved or very short hair - didn’t hear it move. Nervous. Moderately high voice for a male. Wore jeans. Good quality. Thick soled sneakers. Baggy shirt. Cotton with pieces of silk on it. Lots of calluses on hands.’

Matt takes a breath, tries not to think about hands with calluses gripping his skin.

‘Last meals = cheese and ham grilled sandwich, bar peanuts. Newer or younger than the others. Teased him. Called him boy. A comment about champagne. Possibly rich.’

Matt gets the laptop to read it back for him. It sounds pathetic. He sees people in a mix of smells, sounds, sensations. What is a person who relies on sight supposed to do with this?

‘2) Fired a gun in the last 24 hours. Smells like same cheap beer as others. Not as much. Same cigarettes as 1. Feels excitement at-’

His hand freezes. His mouth turns dry. He shakes his head. Come on. He can do this. Sure, his descriptions are a patchwork quilt that only makes sense to him, but he doesn’t know which parts might help. And even if nothing helps. Even if he’s wasting his time here, he needs to do it. Foggy said it could help their case.

And Matt needs to know that he can push through this fear. To not let it control him.

‘Feels excitement at witnessing pain. More than the others. Average length hair. Floppy fringe. Long time smoker. Can hear it in voice. Mild build up of tar in lungs. Cheap jeans. Rough cotton shirt. Carries aluminium baseball bat.’

Matt takes his hand from the keyboard, shakes it out, clenches it, unclenches it. It keeps trembling.

‘About my height. A little wider. Dense muscle. Old injury to left knee. Little affect on strength and range of movement. Very slight limp. Moves like a fighter, but little professional training. Strong right hook. Last ate sandwich with fried onion and bacon. Callused knuckles. Scarring on-’

He blinks. Scarring on left hip, thigh, and knee. Feels surgical. He can type that. Why isn’t he typing that? He forces his hand back on the keyboard.

_It hurts. There are hands. One pushes down on his fractured shoulder. A knee grinds into the broken bones of his arm. The alley bites into the side of his face. He grits his teeth. He’s not allowed to scream. Screaming is weak. Screaming is pathetic. He mustn’t scream. But the man on top of him is - it hurts. He screams. They laugh._

“Jesus Matty stop!” Foggy’s voice.

Matt pants. There’s a vague memory of doing something. Of needing to pace, to hit something, to _break_ something. Ceramic falls from between his fingers and smashes on the floor. His arm is tensed like he was about to throw it.

He doesn’t understand.

Foggy’s heart hammers a few meters away. Karen’s is hummingbird quick by the front door of the apartment. Their body temperatures are too hot, like they ran up here. Their sweat tastes like fear. What happened? Why are they so scared?

“Don’t move Matt.” Foggy’s footsteps move closer. They knock against the clink of glass, the deeper sound of shards of ceramic. It sounds like he’s wading through a river of the stuff.

A screech as a smoother piece of ceramic slides under Foggy’s shoe. A rush of air as he overbalances. Flesh falls heavy against wooden floor. The rattle of glass. A sound of pain.

“Foggy?” Matt shifts his weight toward his friend.

“Goddammit Matt don’t move!” Pain in Foggy’s voice, but fear too. He shifts himself up from the floor. A hand raises toward Matt. A stop motion maybe? All Matt can see is the rush of heat to that hand. Foggy’s hurt. “Matthew! Don’t you fucking move!”

It’s the use of his full name as well as the fear in Foggy’s tone that makes Matt keep his feet where they are. There’s dull pain sweeping through his body, but with the aftermath of the adrenaline he can’t tell where it’s coming from. The scent of blood is strong in the air. How badly is Foggy hurt?

Did he - did he do something to hurt Foggy?

Karen’s hummingbird heartbeat rushes to Foggy’s side. She pulls him to his feet. Foggy leans on her, swaying a little.

“Matt.” The word comes out wet from Foggy’s mouth. The smell of salt. Tears. The fear is still there in his voice and heart. “Matt. I can’t help you right now. I need to get someone, OK?”

Matt doesn’t understand.

Some of the bewilderment must show on his face, because Karen speaks. Her voice is calm, even if her heart is not. “Matt you’re surrounded by broken glass. You don’t have any shoes on. Neither me or Foggy can lift you right now, so we need to get someone who can.”

Broken glass. He. What happened? Did he do this? He remembers throwing things, hearing them smash. It’s faint, like from a dream. A wave of unreality floods over him. He trashed the kitchen? What kind of person does something like that?

“Matt please,” Foggy says. “I need some help with this. Please let me get some help.”

It fits together like a horrible puzzle. He trashed the kitchen. Foggy fell trying to help him. Foggy got hurt.

Matt lowers his head, nods.

“I think Clint could do it?” Karen says.

His stomach rolls. The idea of Clint chatting away to him right now makes him want to throw up.

“How about Steve?”

She’s watching his face for clues he realises. He raises a trembling hand to check. The glasses are gone from his face.

“Maybe Bucky?”

There are no good options, but Bucky is the least terrible. He’s the only one as messed up as he is. He nods.

A long pause of Foggy’s trembling breathing before Jarvis answers their request. “Sergeant Barnes’ therapist has advised him against entering potentially emotional situations on his own. He asks to be able to Captain Rogers with him. He states that Captain Rogers will stand back if that is desired, and only intervene if he feels Sergeant Barnes’ mental state is at risk.”

A fine way to meet Captain America for the first time. But it’s not like he has a choice. The scent of Foggy’s tears slams right through him. He’ll do anything to make them stop. Another slow nod.

Matt keeps his face directed toward the floor as soon as he hears the elevator ascend. The sound of footsteps. Heavy. One set has a more lopsided gait than the other. That must be Bucky. He can only imagine what having a metal arm must do to your balance.

Karen opens the door. Hushed whispers as she explains the situation. He doesn’t bother listening. His attention is focused on Foggy. He’s moved away from Matt toward the empty room that sits next to the second bedroom. Wet breaths as he tries to stop crying.

Lopsided footsteps. They crunch the glass beneath heavy feet. “Jesus Christ Murdock. You really did a number on yourself.”

Bucky’s heart is not calm, but nowhere near as flustered as Karen’s or Foggy’s. He focuses on it. It beats in the same solid way that Steve’s does. Although right now Steve’s heart is fluttering. His muscles are too tense. A wet sound as he swallows. Well done Murdock, you just upset Captain America.

Bucky stands on his left side, close enough to feel his body heat. It’s a little warmer than the average person. Steve seems warmer too. Must be a super soldier thing.

“OK,” Bucky says eventually. “This ain’t gonna be dignified. I’m not gonna throw you over my shoulder with those ribs, so we’re gonna have to do this bridal style. You all right with that?”

Matt tracks Foggy on the far side of the room. He’s standing next to the floor to ceiling windows. It’s difficult to know which way he’s facing, but since there are windows right there, Matt guesses he’s facing away from them. He’s not crying anymore, but his heart still hammers away in his chest. He still smells like fear.

“I ain’t gonna touch you until you tell me it’s OK Murdock,” Bucky says.

Something about those words makes a knot of tension ease out of his shoulders. He nods.

“OK, one hand under your knees, another on your back,” Bucky says. The words sound almost casual. “Ready?”

Matt nods.

“Here we go,” Bucky says. Then there’s a cold arm behind his knees, a warm one behind his back. He’s lifted slowly. The clink of glass as it falls from his feet. He follows it with his ears. A drop of blood chases after the glass, then another one. Bucky’s heart beats steadily through the side of his body. His breath beats down on him, calm and slow.

They walk five long paces to where Matt remembers the dining table being. A shift of Bucky’s body. The scrape of wood along the floor. Then he’s set down in the chair so gently he barely feels the impact. Bucky’s arms fall away.

Another scrape that reverberates along the wooden floor and up through his chair. A cold hand grips his ankle.

Matt’s heart races in his chest. He grabs the chair beneath him with his good hand, using the leverage to wiggle out of the hold. He can’t let them pin him down. They won’t let him back up again.

“Hey pal.” Bucky’s voice, slow and cautious. “Ain’t gonna grab you. I just need you to lift your feet up. Come on, get those legs up. They’re gonna hurt like a motherfucker if you keep putting weight on them.”

They do hurt. The soles of his feet scream with pain. Why hadn’t he noticed that before? He lifts his legs up.

“Little higher.”

He raises them. The action makes him dizzy. Or maybe that’s the last of the adrenaline fading away.

A scrape of wood. “And down.”

The heels of his feet touches the smooth wood of a chair seat. One of them stings.

The sound of hair as Bucky turns his head. It’s long enough to brush his shoulders. “First aid kit Stevie.”

“Right.” Captain’s America’s heart-rate has steadied out. He strides through broken glass and ceramic. The shear amount of the stuff hurts Matt’s ears.

Matt shakes his head.

“What is it?” Bucky asks softly. His voice comes from low down. Crouching near Matt’s feet.

Matt swings his good arm behind him, pointing to Foggy without turning around.

Bucky gets it. “Hey Foggy was it? You hurt?”

Foggy’s footsteps move toward them in a slow stumbling way, like he’s half asleep. His breathing is uneven, but not wet. He’s not crying. There’s a trace of salt. A tang of blood.

Bucky whistles. “You’re gonna need a couple stitches yourself.”

Stitches. Matt hunches over in the chair. He trashed the kitchen like a crazy person, and now Foggy needs stitches. His stomach flips over.

The scrape of ceramic against a brush. Not Captain America. Karen sweeping up the mess he made. Her heartbeat is still too fast, but her movements are steady.

A hitch of breath like Foggy wants to say something. His footsteps move around to Bucky, still. He’s looking at something that makes his heart clench. “Matty, your feet. What did you do to your…”

Matt doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know if he can say anything. He ducks his head, even though it does nothing to stop him hearing Foggy’s stuttered breaths.

Movement of hair. Foggy running a hand through it. His breath stops and starts like he might cry again. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

Foggy’s footsteps move so fast that it takes a while for Matt’s brain to catch up. They’re at the apartment door before it hits him. Foggy’s leaving. Foggy’s _leaving._

Karen stands up so suddenly that glass clatters around her. “Foggy!”

The sharp movement of Foggy’s hair as he shakes his head. He doesn’t slow down. The door shuts behind him with a bang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked for info/resources on the character's coping mechanisms, so I thought I'd go back through the chapters and add a few notes like this one. Hope someone finds them interesting. If not feel free to skip.
> 
> Coping methods in this chapter = Trigger Lists.
> 
> Bucky and co use these in the 'never ok' 'sometimes ok' and 'always ok' format. Other people might choose to categorise them in different ways. Whatever works for you. A good use for these is to eventually use them make an exposure hierarchy from the least scary thing you're avoiding to most scary, and tackle them through exposure therapy, another therapy dealing with processing the relevant trauma, or a combination of therapies. 
> 
> Here's a good example of a exposure / avoidance hierarchy worksheet: https://www.google.co.uk/search?client=tablet-android-samsung&hl=en-GB&oe=utf-8&devicelang=en&safe=images&q=exposure+hierarchy+worksheet&source=browser-suggest&qsubts=1466436469877&devloc=0#imgrc=lvR2O1QnYGnVgM%3A
> 
> Bucky's list was once much longer, and the consequences of triggering one of them had more of an impact. 
> 
> This kind of list, or even a vague 'avoid these things around me' list can be a good way to make a safe and less stressful environment while issues and triggers are gradually worked on.
> 
> In my professional life I have seen some people use these type of lists as a 'never do these things around me ever' rule with mild dislikes put on the list and no effort or even thought to working on any of them. The result is the avoidance of all things on the list, causing even the mild dislikes to build into phobias, yet more dislikes being added to the list, and severe impact to the person's life, other's lives, and members of the public.
> 
> There are some times when extreme avoidance of all triggers on the list is a good thing, such as early after the trauma when a person needs to build basic coping skills. Once coping skills are established there should be thought paid to improving mental health and tolerance of triggers. What method, speed, order this goes in depends on the person and their therapist. 
> 
> Remember I'm not a mental health professional, I just have some experience in the area. For professional advice go to a professional.


	8. Chapter 8

Matt grips the chair beneath him. He forces himself to take a breath.

Foggy is gone.

His ears listen for the hum of the elevator, waiting for it to rise with Foggy in it. There’s nothing. It’s silent. For the first time he wishes he were back in his apartment, where his ears can drift several floors below without problem. Instead the sounds below this floor are non existent.

The scrape of plastic against wood as something is placed on the table beside Bucky. A click of plastic. The smell of bandages and antiseptic. Captain America opening a first aid kit. His breath hitches like Foggy’s does when he’s about to say something, then he moves away.

“K.” The clink of metal against metal as Bucky digs in the first aid kit. There’s something unusual about the sound. Matt doesn’t have the energy to find out what. “I’m gonna cut these socks off first, then dig the glass out. It’s not gonna be comfortable. What pain meds are you on?”

The balloon Karen gave him arrived with the stuff from his apartment. They’d tied it to the kitchen table. The same table leg he’s sitting right next to, but when he reaches it’s not there. He can’t find it.

“I don’t think he’s on any pain meds.” Something about Karen’s voice sounds hollow. “He doesn’t like taking them. I’m not sure he’s had any since Saturday.”

Bucky’s heart stutters. “But he’s got a fucked up arm and busted ribs.”

“Three busted ribs.” Ceramic against a brush as Karen cleans it up. Her heart hums too fast.

Silence. Bucky’s probably staring at him. Finally he speaks. “You gonna take any pain meds before I start?”

Matt shakes his head.

Hair brushing against cloth as Bucky shakes his head. “Stubborn ass.” But his heart does that weird stutter like he’s upset.

Cold metal against his ankle. Slow methodical snipping sounds as Bucky cuts through his sock. The action makes the fabric pull. Horrible tugging sensations as glass moves in his foot. There’s a lot of it. If he concentrates he can feel every last chunk moving beneath his skin.

Karen’s steps move uncertainly toward him. They stop at his side. The crinkle of fabric as she crouches down. Skin against skin as she rubs the palms of her hands together. Her breath comes out sounding scared. Her muscles are tense. Her words are strong. “I don’t know how much you can see of this Matt. I don’t know - do you understand what’s happening?”

He got angry. He broke things. Foggy got hurt. The pieces fit together. They kind of make sense. But at the same time they don’t. He shakes his head.

“Jarvis called us.” There’s wet to her voice, but steel too. “He said you were in distress. That you were in danger of injuring yourself. Me and Foggy came as fast as we could. You were emptying cupboards. Throwing things Matt. All over the floor. I think you smashed everything in the kitchen.” A wet shaky laugh. “Everything but the wine glasses. The ones Foggy was complaining were so high up. If you’d got to those they could’ve rained down right on your head.”

He trashed the kitchen. He worse than trashed the kitchen. He demolished it. There were some bowls he and Foggy bought together during college. And the other stuff wasn’t even his.

“You - I think you walked on it. I’m not sure you even noticed. There’s a lot of glass in your feet Matt. Does it hurt?”

His eyes blink rapidly. His hand can’t find the balloon. He doesn’t know how to answer that. He thinks it hurts, but it’s stabbing pains among a whole body of dull pain. And none of it matches up to the agony of Foggy being gone.

Is he going to come back this time?

Metal against glass as Bucky pulls a piece from his foot. A clunk as it lands on the wooden table. Somewhere behind Bucky there’s the sound of glass falling into something plastic. Captain America putting the broken shards into a bin.

The sound of Karen shifting in her crouched position. Her breath hitches several times before she gathers the courage to speak again. “Matt. Can you tell me what triggered this?”

His hand finally gives up on the balloon, clutching a handful of his hoodie again. It slides between his fingers, soft and comforting. Another tug of glass from his foot. It hurts, but it also doesn’t hurt. Like the pain is coming from somewhere further away than his body.

“I’ll be right back.” There’s so much emotion in Karen’s voice, and her heart is skipping about everywhere. He doesn’t know whether it’s a lie.

He follows her determined footsteps to his bedroom, then she comes back. She does come back. Her gait is a little different, like she’s carrying something. Her footsteps continue to behind him. The sound of plastic against wood as she sets something on the table beside him. The tap of familiar keys.

His stomach sinks. It’s hard to swallow. His laptop. Did he get rid of what was on the screen before he marched into the kitchen area? Maybe. Her heart doesn’t change as she clicks through the steps he recognises as getting up a blank document. Either he exited it, or she didn’t notice before clicking on a new document.

Lighter plastic moving to the edge of the table. The braille keyboard.

“There.” She moves back to her previous spot at his side. “Can you - can you explain what happened?”

He shifts his body, reaching for the keyboard. What can he say? He doesn’t know how to explain it. He’s tried before when the anger and the terror were because of losing his sight, or that night when he listened for his father’s heartbeat and heard nothing. He’s never been good with words. Not ones he hasn’t broken down and practised, and practised. And there’s no amount of practice that can help him explain this when he doesn’t understand it himself.

His fingers touch the keyboard. His body makes up his mind for him when his heart slams into his sternum, and the keyboard and laptop go flying off the back of the table.

Karen flinches back, her heart beating fast with fear.

Guilt stabs through him for scaring her. He wants to figure out a way to say sorry. A way to explain why he just did that, why he smashed the kitchen, when he doesn’t know. But he’s having enough trouble trying to breathe.

“Let’s take things down a notch." Bucky's body remains still at his feet, no longer touching him. "You had a bad episode. It's over. Leave it alone for now."

Matt's head hurts. His attention drifts to where the laptop must've landed. Did he break it?

"Don't worry about that pal. Stevie ain't a fan of technology either." Bucky's heartbeat picks up, faster than when the laptop went flying.

Karen's heartbeat is the one that starts steadying. "Matt. Can I hold your hand?"

His hand? Why?

"Matt. Please can I hold your hand?"

His head hurts. His hand is fisted in his hair, digging into the side of his head hard enough to bruise. He nods, but can't bring himself to let go.

Her fingers are gentle as they close around his, easing his grip loose. She moves, crouching back on the ground. The palms of her hands sandwich his between them. They rub a little, back and forth, like he's heard Foggy's cousins do to their children's hands when they come back inside from the annual Nelson snowball fight.

It's nice.

It's only when his body starts to slow down that he realises he's been rocking. How long has that been going on? The lack of control he seems to have over his body is terrifying. Rocking. The only person he's done that in front of as an adult is Foggy, and that wasn't intentional. Wouldn't have happened if they didn't share a room for so many years.

It's bad enough that Captain America and his best buddy Bucky know why he's here, does he have to act so pathetic in front of them too?

Matt takes a deep breath, forces the motions to stop. He feels like he's run a marathon. All his muscles quiver. He's shivering. "Fog-" The word cuts off half way. That's not fair. That's his word. He doesn't want this to take away that word too.

Karen's palms rub circles into his hand. The deep pressure is soothing. "You want to know what happened to Foggy?"

Matt nods. All the questions he can't ask tumble around in his head. How badly is Foggy hurt? Where is he? How mad is he? When is he coming back? Is he ever coming back?

"Foggy tried to get to you. He slipped on a plate and cut his hand on a piece of glass when he fell. He's not mad. I promise he's not mad." Her heart says truth, but it's not like she can answer for Foggy. "He tries to hide it, but he worries about you a lot. He always has. You scared him. He'll be fine. He just needs a little space to calm down."

Another clunk of glass against wood. Bucky drops another piece onto the table. They're almost all gone now. A few small shards left near the right heel.

The clatter of glass from the kitchen area has long since slowed to a tinkle. Captain America shifts his weight. The sound of glass against hard plastic as he lifts the bins up. "I think that's about it. Tony is sending some of his robots to search for any last pieces."

Matt curls in on himself. Tony Stark knows about this. Which will he be most disturbed by? That Matt destroyed everything in the kitchen. In Tony's kitchen. Or that Matt is the sort of guy who goes crazy and breaks things without warning?

Sure, Bucky may have issues, but Tony can't kick him out since Steve is part of the Avengers. Matt has no ties to the Avengers. Tony has no reason to keep him here.

And if he leaves then where is he going to go? The reporters will track down Matt and Foggy no matter where they hide. Then the police will come. Tony had to promise to keep an eye on him in order for them to agree to let him out. If Tony kicks them out of the tower, the chances of the police letting him stay free are slim to none.

Matt will end up in a cell surrounded by all the noise, smells, the everything. He's not sure he can survive that without Foggy.

"Matt?" Two hands squeezing his bring him back. "Did you hear what Bucky said?"

Matt blinks. Tiredness drags at him like black sludge, pulling him down. He shakes his head.

"Asked if you'll let me use some local," Bucky says, voice too patient after all the problems Matt's giving him. "To do the stitches."

Local's OK. It doesn't mess with his focus like other meds. He nods.

"Got him," Captain America says, walking to Bucky's side. There's something humming with electricity in his hand. It passes to Bucky.

"Banner." Flesh against plastic as Bucky grips the object. A phone. "Need you to talk me through testing reflexes. I think we're OK, but a couple were pretty deep so I want to cover bases before I numb him up."

Matt concentrates and picks up the words "Foggy told me" before he loses focus. He shakes his head in frustration.

"Hang on a minute Banner." The scrape of skin against plastic as Bucky moves the phone from his ear. "Murdock, what is it?"

"Foggy." The word comes out whole. But it also comes out with more of a whine to it than he would've liked.

Karen's hands massage his between them.

"I'll see what I can find out," Bucky says, as if he's been given an important mission.

Bucky turns his attention back to the phone, asking questions. Karen asks Captain America to get her tablet from the second bedroom.

"You know how to get up netflix, right?" she asks as his footsteps approach again.

There's a smile to his voice. "I'm not as incompetent with these things as some people would have you believe."

"You are plenty incompetent," Bucky says as he does something to Matt's feet that makes them twitch. "Yeah that worked Banner. So how many stitches did you have to do tonight?"

Matt's heart seems to freeze in his chest.

Shuffling as Bucky digs through the medical kit. "Foggy only needed two stitches Murdock. He's fine."

Karen's hands drop Matt's. He misses them. Her voice turns cold. "Let me speak to Foggy."

Bucky's heart does a strange skip like he's uncomfortable. "Got a dame giving me a death glare wanting to speak to Foggy. No I don't think it can wait. You've been around Nat. You know you don't ignore death glares Banner."

The movement of air as the phone passes from Bucky to Karen.

"I'll be right outside the door Matt," Karen says. "Five minutes. I'm not leaving. OK?"

Is his anxiety that obvious?

Her heels click their way to the apartment door. The door opens, closes.

Captain America stands where she left him, buzzing tablet in his hands. Bucky clears his throat. "You work with one scary lady Murdock."

***

The walls between the apartment and the corridor are dense, but not enough to block out all sounds for someone with super-senses.

Matt’s fluctuating focus allows one clear sentence from Karen “He needs you” and enough information to tell that Karen starts the conversation very angry, and at one point Foggy starts crying again. He’s gripping the seat of the chair hard when she comes through the apartment door, more subdued than when she left.

Her heels tap a path to the first bedroom. Rustling of plastic as she picks up a bag. Then she makes her way back to his side.

“He promises he’ll be here before morning. I promised him right back that if he doesn’t walk through that door before five am I am dragging him back myself.” The rustling bag lands on the table beside him. Several hard containers inside. Plastic. “He also said to remind you to take your pills.”

Something childish prods at him, tempting him to refuse to take the pills until Foggy comes back. He pushes it aside. There isn’t much left of today. Only about four hours he guesses. Claire isn’t dropping the new anti nausea drug by until tomorrow, which means he’s going to have to space out the doses to avoid throwing all of it up.

His hand searches in the bag, finding the braille labels. There are a lot of pills to take. He dry swallows the anti nausea pill before Karen brings a glass of water. Then he gathers all the other pills, putting them in a neat pile for later. It’s difficult with only one hand. He manages, finding each pill with his fingers, then putting the lid back on while always keeping the container in the plastic bag. He knows the others won’t know what the pills are for by the label, or at least he hopes they won’t, but he doesn’t want to chance it. It’s lucky Claire thought to put them in easy to open containers, instead of the child proof ones.

Pushing the bag aside he takes the HIV pill. It’s tasteless, but the memory of the nausea makes him wince as it goes down.

“How about Chicken Little?” Karen asks. “It’s pretty funny. Want me to put it on?”

Matt shrugs. A few seconds later something with a buzzing hum is set on the table, and the movie starts.

“All done,” Bucky says. Shuffling in the medical kit as he searches for something. “Just need to wrap this up and you’ll be set. Try to stay off them for five days. I know it’s a hard ask, but try. OK pal? I don’t know if it’ll help, but I’ll get Tony to send up a crutch. It might take some of the weight off when you’re shuffling to the bathroom, which should be the only time you use your feet if you want them to heal.”

It doesn’t feel like a hard ask right now. His body is so wrung out that he wouldn’t be surprised if he sleeps through the next ten days, let alone five.

Gritting his teeth he points toward the kitchen area.

Bucky pauses wrapping gauze around the adhesive plasters on the bottom of his feet. The material itches. “You need something?”

He nods, then rests his head against the back of the chair. It feels too heavy for his body.

Movement of hair as Bucky turns his head. Looking at the kitchen area Matt guesses. “Want some food?”

He shakes his head. Frustration throbs dully like a familiar wound.

“You do need to eat something,” Karen says.

Matt shakes his head, bringing up a hand to rub his face. Why does communication have to be so difficult. He doesn’t want to play a game of charades just so he can get a bucket to puke in.

“Try again pal,” Bucky says, tying up the gauze around his left foot.

Matt lifts his head to the ceiling, inwardly praying that something about this whole experience will go easy for once. Steve took the bins to the door. Maybe if he reminds them of that they’ll get it. He points in the direction of Captain America’s heartbeat, then the door.

Bucky finishes wrapping his right foot. “You want Steve to leave?”

Matt shakes his head, nods, shakes his head again. He does kind of want everyone to go. But that’s not what he meant. That’s not remotely what he meant. He taps the back of his head against the chair in frustration.

“Something about me and the door.” Captain America’s voice is soft.

Matt nods.

“I took the glass to the door.”

Yes, closer. Another nod.

The movement of hard material. Jeans. Bucky stands up. A plastic click as he closes the medical kit. “Something about the glass?”

Matt shakes his head. The air feels too solid in his lungs. This is ridiculous. The worst party game ever.

Captain America shuffles. “The bins I put the glass in?”

Matt nods. Tears prick behind his eyes. He blinks to keep them there.

“You need a bin Matt?” Karen asks suddenly. “You’re feeling sick?”

Not yet, but he will be. He nods.

Captain America’s footsteps wander the kitchen area for a few moments. Then there’s a scrape of plastic. The bin is set down by Karen loud enough that Matt could pinpoint its location even without super-senses.

The movie continues playing. Something about a small chicken struggling to open a locker.

Bucky barks a laugh. “Look Stevie it’s you. We need to go watch this movie.”

“Matt?” It’s the first time Captain America’s said his name since entering the room. “Do you want me and Buck to go?”

Matt nods. He doesn’t want them. He wants Foggy.

“No problem pal,” Bucky says. “You want me to help you someplace more comfortable before we leave?”

Matt shakes his head.

“Matt,” Karen says. “Foggy’s not going to be back for a while. Maybe you should go to bed while Bucky’s here to help?”

A shake of his head.

“Matt,” Karen says, voice pleading.

Another shake. Foggy’s coming back. Matt will wait at the kitchen table until he gets here.

***

Foggy comes back after two movies and most of an how to train your dragon audio-book.

Matt lifts his head from the back of the chair as soon as he hears the elevator. There’d been a false alarm before. Falcon making his way to his room, he thinks. But now it’s the early hours of the morning. Falcon, Bucky and Steve are in their apartments. It’s not likely someone would visit them this late.

Sure enough there’s a whoosh as the elevator doors open, and he can hear Foggy’s heartbeat. Matt straightens in his chair. Kitchen chairs are not good places to spend the night. He’d learnt that years before, waiting up for his dad. His ribs stab complaint at him. His insides coil in all kinds of painful ways he’s sure they aren’t supposed to.

Karen raises her head from the kitchen table the moment the door clicks open. Her heartbeat moves sluggishly out of the slow rhythm of sleep.

Foggy smells of whisky and antiseptic. The blood is a faint hint on Foggy’s sleeve. A cloud of anger drifts off him. The footsteps march over to him with purpose in their stride.

Matt holds his breath.

A hand touches his head. Fingers brush through his hair.

All the breath leaves his body in a relived rush. He falls forward, forehead leaning against a familiar stomach. Foggy’s here. “Sorry,” he says. “Foggy. Sorry.”

Foggy lets out a breath that speaks of tense muscles, words he’s trying to keep silent. “Brett told me Wright attacked you at the police station.” It comes out through gritted teeth. Angry.

Matt tenses. His hand twitches in his lap, wanting to grab Foggy in case he thinks of walking away again.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Foggy asks, wet in his voice. The faint tang of salt in the air. He’s trying not to cry. “Matt - did you seriously think I’d let him go anywhere near you again if I knew?”

Matt slowly raises his head off Foggy’s stomach. “It’s not your responsibility to look after me.”

“Of course it is. Matt we’re best friends. I look after you. You look after me. But how am I supposed to do that if you never tell me anything?”

Matt’s hand finds the soft material of his hoodie. It grips, holding on tight.

Karen’s heartbeat speeds up. Fabric shifting as she straightens up on the chair beside Matt. “Foggy now’s not the time.”

“I found out about Daredevil after you nearly died.” The stronger scent of tears in the air. “I find out about Wright after you had a meltdown which I could’ve prevented if I knew about what happened at the police station. You need to start talking to me Matt. I can’t keep finding out this stuff from someone else. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you just tell me?” The last words break up with an equal mix of upset and anger.

Matt knows Foggy enough to read between the lines. This isn’t about Wright. Or it isn’t just about Wright. Why didn’t you tell me what happened to you that night? That’s what he’s really asking. Karen must get it too because her breath hitches.

A sickness rushes over him, deeper than the one that had him throwing up a few hours before. Shoving the other chair away with his bandaged feet, he pushes himself up to standing. There’s pain, but he knows how to cope with pain.

“Matt.”

Matt shoves past him. His feet hobble their way to where he remembers the first bedroom being. His hand finds the door and slams it closed behind him. He burrows under the silk duvet, pulling it over his head. His ribs complain, wanting to be vertical. He ignores them.

It’s not like he’s going to be able to breathe either way.

***

It must be several hours later when the door opens, because Matt is dazed like he finally managed to get a little sleep.

“Hey burrito Matt,” Foggy says, sounding a lot different from last night. More chipper. Less angry. His heart flutters with nerves. “You mind if I come in?”

Matt stays silent, even as Foggy closes the door behind him, moves around the bed. The mattress rocks as he climbs onto it. Warmth as he settles by Matt’s side, far enough away to have to reach to touch.

“Karen says we need to have a feelings talk. Remember them?” Foggy asks. He doesn’t smell like anger anymore. His muscles are tense, but not as tense as they would be if he were still angry. Nerves, he thinks. The smell of whisky is almost gone, replaced by a fresh coat of soap and strawberry shampoo. “We had them in college. I guess we kind of fell out of practice.”

Matt huffs. “I hate feelings talks.”

“I know you do buddy, but they worked remember?” Foggy shuffles on the bed. There’s a slosh of water. “You were always a lot calmer afterwards. A lot happier too. I’m sorry I didn’t keep them going. You going to sit up? Drink something?”

Matt stays under the duvet.

“OK. There’s a bottle of water on your nightstand when you want it.” The sound of the air changes as Foggy leans over him. Plastic against wood as he sets the bottle on the nightstand. “I’ll go first. That all right?’

Matt takes a piece of the duvet between his fingers, rubbing it. His feet throb. His lungs hitch, always stopping short of a full breath. His ribs don’t like lying flat like this. He doesn’t move.

“I’m angry at Wright,” Foggy says. “I know he said or did something in that interview to upset you and I want to kick his ass for it. I’m angry at me because I knew you were pushing yourself too hard. I knew there was going to be payback at some point. I should’ve stayed with you while Karen went to dinner and brought us back something. I thought you were looking a little better, and I didn’t want to seem to smothering. I miscalculated. I’m sorry for that.”

Matt sighs, pushing the duvet away from his face to let fresh air in. “You shouldn’t have to put up with this. I’m a mess.”

“You’re my mess,” Foggy says, sounding fond. “And it’s still my turn. I’m angry at all those things, but I’m not angry at you Matt. I’m sad that you didn’t feel you could tell me. I’m disappointed that you didn’t say you were feeling bad. But I’m not mad. You can hear my heart, right? You can hear I’m telling you the truth?”

Matt gives a small nod.

“When Jarvis said you were in danger of injuring yourself I got really scared.” Foggy’s body tenses. His voice goes a little wet. “I didn’t know what to think. Then we got there and you were bleeding. It’s like you didn’t notice. You had glass in your feet, and you were ready to walk through all those broken glasses and plates, hurt yourself even worse. All I could think over and over was if you could hurt yourself that badly in that little time, then what’s to stop you hurting yourself even worse? What’s to stop you-” Foggy breaks off, breathing deeply as if to get his emotions under control.

The end of the sentence stays unspoken between them. What’s to stop you killing yourself?

“That’s why I left,” Foggy says after a few moments of breathing. “I needed to get my head around it. I know you’ve had your problems before, but never anything like this. The idea that one day I might lose you to yourself. It scared me so so much. I didn’t want to put that on you, so I left until I got my head back on straight. But Matt, I was always going to come back.”

Matt’s fingers fiddle around the duvet. The cast presses against his chest. “I’m not going to hurt myself Foggy. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

Foggy lets out a small breath. Relieved.

“I just. I just got angry.” He twists the duvet, shuffles himself up onto the pillows. “Do I have to talk about this Foggy?”

“Feelings talks help remember? I want to help you buddy,” Foggy says. “I promise. I won’t ask you to talk about any more feelings this time. Just this.”

Matt picks at the duvet.

“You want to feel better, don’t you?” Foggy asks. “You don’t want this to happen again? Please let me help you.”

Matt huffs. He reaches for the water, almost knocks it off the nightstand. The cap is already loose. He twists it the rest of the way off with his one hand and takes a long swallow. He’s thirstier than he thought. “I don’t know,” he says eventually, holding the bottle tight to his chest. “Wright didn’t help. He just spoke words. I mean he said some shitty things, but they were just words. Then afterwards. When you and Karen left, I was - I was trying to.”

The words stick in his throat. He shakes his head to clear them. “I was trying to write some descriptions of - of…and then, I don’t know. It was like I wasn’t here anymore Foggy. I w-w-was there. In the…” he grits his teeth. “I wanted it out of my head. I think I thought if I could break something it would go away. The plates were there, and I was angry.”

Silence for a while. “Feel better?” Foggy asks.

Matt slumps back against the pillows. The plastic bottle crumples in his grip. “No.’

“You will buddy,” Foggy says. He sounds like he believes it. “I promise. It sounds like a flashback to me. You’ve heard of them, right?”

He thinks he heard it mentioned once in the therapy they gave him after he lost his eyesight. Not much. They were mainly concerned with him not feeling sorry for himself, not dwelling on what happened. Most of his knowledge comes from military movies. A guy comes back from war, and he sees images from it like it’s still happening. “I guess. Like with PTSD?”

“Yeah,” Foggy says softly. “Like PTSD. Look Matty, I did some psychology in undergrad, but we’re reaching the end of what I know. We’re going to need some professional help with this buddy.”

Matt shakes his head. “I don’t want therapy.”

“I know you don’t have the best experience with therapists. That lady you saw when you were nine sounds like a total douche-bag. I mean, what educated professional tells a kid they should just forget about the very traumatic event that happened to them and move on? You lost your sight. You should’ve been given some time to grieve. We should sue them. Please say you’ll let me sue them?”

“No Foggy.” Matt places the cap back on the bottle, somehow puts it back on the nightstand without dropping it on the floor. This isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. “We can’t sue them. I’m not saying it was fun, but it worked. I stopped thinking about it. I can - I think I can do that again without some shrink telling me to.”

“Sure, repression. That’s the way to go.” Movement of hair as Foggy shakes his head. “Just in case you can’t tell that was me being sarcastic. Don’t take any offence from this buddy, but your dad wasn’t exactly raking in the bucks, right? So you ended up with a bottom of the barrel therapist with a hundred kids on her caseload and only a small amount of funded sessions before the insurance company insists you’re adjusted to your new life. She told you those things to make her job easier, not to help you. Most real therapists care about fixing problems, not covering them up.”

Matt forces himself to take a deep breath. It burns. “Who says we can afford anything better than a bottom of the barrel therapist this time?”

“Pepper says.”

Something in his stomach flips over. “We can’t Foggy. We can’t keep taking things from them. It’s bad enough us living under their roof.”

“They want to do this Matt. And it’s not like they can’t afford it.” Foggy makes some kind of gesture he can’t make out. “You’re always helping people. Defending the helpless pro bono in both court and the streets. Let someone help you for once. Pepper drew up a list of therapists for you to look at. Good therapists. I think they can help us with the problems you’ve been having”

“I’m not a charity case.” His heart flutters in his chest.

In his head he tells the therapist at nine years old that he keeps thinking about what happened. She tells him he needs to move on. Stick fires a gun by his head to get him used to loud noises. He thinks of his father and spends the next half hour curled up on the floor having a panic attack. Stick spends that time yelling at him, and kicking him in the stomach until he manages to find his feet again. The next time Stick fires a gun he keeps his feet.

He managed to get past all that. He can deal with this too.

“Matt.”

“This happens to other people too Foggy,” Matt says, making sure to turn his head to face Foggy, to keep his voice calm and neutral. “And a lot of them don’t tell anyone. They don’t go to the police. They don’t get therapy. They deal with it. They move on. They don’t have trouble talking. They don’t have panic attacks or break things. If they can do it, then I can find a way to do it too. I just need to - I just need to figure out how. I can - I’m sure I can do it if - if I try hard enough. I - I just need to try harder. I just need to try harder Foggy. I can - I can-”

Foggy’s hand hooks around the back of his neck. He’s pulled towards Foggy’s heartbeat.

He buries his face in Foggy’s chest and screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coping methods in this chapter =
> 
> Karen asks to take Matt's hand in an instinctive move to stop him harming himself, but hand massage can be a good distraction for self harm and a good reducer of anxiety.
> 
> Talking about feelings with someone is good, for the natural relief that comes from it, and because it's difficult to challenge your thoughts and problem solve if you keep your thoughts in your head. Even just speaking your thoughts out loud or writing them down can help you see the biases in them. Matt suffers from a lot of negative thoughts that can build into tension, anger, anxiety, or depression so the way these feeling talks help him view his thoughts and situation in a different way is invaluable to him. It helps decrease his stress levels, even if it might not feel that way at the time.
> 
> More info on challenging negative thoughts later, but for those interested there's some good info on challenging thoughts, finding solutions for problems, and dealing with excessive worrying in this handy anxiety guide:
> 
> http://www.moodjuice.scot.nhs.uk/anxiety.asp


	9. Chapter 9

Matt sleeps.

His body is too heavy. His mind feels like it’s filled with black sludge. He wakes, grips his duvet, and concentrates on his breathing until he drifts off again. Sometimes it takes hours. But it’s better than doing anything else.

Sometimes he wakes to the smell of Foggy. Foggy’s voice telling him to sit up, drink something, eat some soup or oatmeal or dry toast. Does he want to take his pills yet? Does he need help to get to the bathroom? Sometimes Matt listens. More often he concentrates on his breathing and wishes he were still asleep.

The wet in Foggy’s voice reminds Matt he said he was going to try harder. He is. He will. But the energy to do that just isn’t there. It’s like he’s been hollowed out. Everything inside him replaced by heavy rocks that make anything but lying under his silk duvet impossible.

He wants to sleep. He just wants to sleep.

The sound of his door opening. “Hey Matty?” Foggy’s voice.

He’s not sure if his eyes are open or closed. He doesn’t move.

“Natasha’s here. Apparently she’s some kind of expert at matching people with therapists. She wants to tell you what she knows about the ones on Pepper’s list. Help you choose which one you want to try.”

He doesn’t remember being told he has to choose something. It sounds exhausting.

“You feel up to listening to her?”

Natasha. He remembers graceful movements. The subtle scent of perfume, barely noticeable over the smell of soap and rose shampoo.

“Buddy,” Foggy’s body heat moves closer. A hand brushes over his hair. “She’s waiting outside the apartment door. Says she won’t come in without your permission.”

He reaches out his senses. There. A heartbeat outside the apartment door. It’s slow and steady.

“Matty, do you want her to come into the apartment?”

A sudden burst of emotion explodes in his chest. He can’t tell what it is, except that it burns. He shakes his head. No. He doesn’t want her here. This is their space. Him, Karen, and Foggy. It’s safe. If strangers can come in then it won’t be safe anymore.

“Do you want to come to her?”

His hand grips the duvet tight. The thought of getting up, walking to the apartment door, meeting this stranger who knows nothing about him except what happened to him. It’s too much. It’s too _much._ Something wet trails down the side of his face.

“Hey bud.” Foggy’s voice is soft, soothing. His thumb is warm against Matt’s temple, wiping away the wet gathered there. “It’s fine if you don’t want to. Do you want to?”

Matt shakes his head. A little more wet runs from his eyes to his temples.

Foggy’s thumb comes back, wipes away the lines of wet and salt. “Can I talk to her? Please Matty? She won’t come into the apartment. I just need to talk to her. Find out what our options are.”

Options. A choice. Matt doesn’t want to make a choice. There’s no energy in him to think about big choices like that.

“Please Matty.” Foggy’s hand runs through his hair. “Let me do this. For me?”

Matt nods. For Foggy. He’ll do anything for Foggy.

Foggy’s hand runs through his hair for several more seconds. Then something soft and gentle touches his forehead. A kiss. He thinks his dad did that at least once when he was small. It’s a half forgotten memory. Maybe not even a memory. Maybe something he made up.

Foggy’s footsteps leave the room. The door closes.

It takes a while to zero in on their heartbeats again. They’re by the apartment door. Sitting down, he thinks. One heartbeat on one side of the wall, the other on the other side.

“Wait,” Foggy says. “You disguised yourself as Clint to vet his potential therapists?”

“It wasn’t that difficult. I’ve spent enough time around him to know how he acts. Our heights aren’t that different. The rest is doable with the right clothing, a little tech, and some excellent makeup skills. The hair was the hardest challenge.”

“Wow. Just wow. I bow down to your skills as a super spy.”

“I also tried out half the therapists in Shield before I chose mine. Shield only hired the best to deal with mine and Clint’s level of ‘challenge,’ so I know most of the names here.” The sound of paper flapping. Natasha waving the list of therapists Pepper gave him.

“Didn’t Shield turn out to be Hydra?”

“Not all of them. Not these.”

“Uh,” Foggy sounds nervous. “If you don’t mind my asking, what made you choose your therapist?”

“He’s the only person I met as good at spotting deception as me. I needed someone I wouldn’t be tempted to lie to.” A pause. “He also lets me play table tennis on the days I don’t want to speak. That’s a bonus.”

“And it helps?”

“It helps.”

“That’s good. I mean, I’m really trying here. Matty has this thing against shr-therapists. Bad experience. Thinks he can tough guy it out on his own. But he can’t. He really can’t. And I need him to get better. I can’t keep doing this. I mean, I will. Of course I will. But I can’t. Does that make sense? Or did I just spout a whole load of nonsense?”

There’s a long pause in which Foggy’s heartbeat rises.

“Maurice,” Natasha says with finality.

“What?”

“Maurice. He’s the right therapist for you.”

“You mean for Matt?”

“No,” the sound of hair moving as Natasha shakes her head. “For you. He’s Steve’s therapist. He helped a lot when Bucky first came back. Steve was under a lot of pressure. Bucky - well, you can guess how much help he needed. And for a long time Steve was the only one who could give that help. Maurice helped keep him together.”

Foggy gives a dry chuckle. “That obvious, huh?”

“You’re trying, but I could tell the first time I saw you that you need help as much as Matt needs help. He’s not the only one going through something.”

Foggy. Matt’s heart clenches.

“All of this. It’s nothing compared to what Matt is going through.”

“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t use some help.”

“You know, we had a pretty good moment yesterday morning.” Foggy’s voice takes on a wet tone. “I got him to talk about his feelings. If you know anything about Matt, you’d know that’s close to impossible. I’m not even sure he knew what feelings were before we met in college. Well, he knew what they were I think, but he wasn’t sure about their labels, and he certainly never talked about them. That’s our relationship in a nutshell. He bottles things up. I drag them out of him. So I was happy he was letting me help him again. I thought that might be the start of some improvement. And now he’s lying in his bed. He hasn’t spoken in over a day, not even to me. He hasn’t moved except to go to the bathroom. Most of the time it’s like he doesn’t know I’m there. He won’t eat unless I coach him through every mouthful. I’m trying to help him Natasha, but I don’t know how. I’m flying blind here.”

“You look like you could use a hug.”

Foggy gives a wet laugh. “I could never turn down a hug from a beautiful woman.”

Fabric against fabric. The hug is quick but firm.

Foggy takes a deep breath, sounding like he’s trying to get his emotions in check. “And the press says you’re all cold and emotionless.”

“Shh,” Natasha says, sounding playful. “Don’t give away my secrets. You want me to set up a meeting with Maurice?”

“Sure. Go for it. I guess I do need to set a good example for once.” A huff. “Maybe if Matt sees me talking to someone he’ll cooperate. Maybe. He can be a stubborn ass at times.”

“Stubborn. Issues expressing feelings,” Natasha says in a thoughtful voice. “He needs someone good at coaxing him into conversation. I imagine he’ll get frustrated easily, so we need someone comfortable to skirt away from the traditional script. We don’t need to worry about getting someone good at spotting deception, not with that open face. How’s his sense of humour?”

Foggy snorts. “He’s a total smart-ass.”

“I’d say Fiona Nickleson is your best bet. I chose her for Clint. She’s on the list so she has the time for an intensive client. She’s patient. You have to be with Clint. Adaptable. She uses humour to trick Clint into talking. But she can use softer methods when needed. I think she’d be a good fit.”

“Does she have any experience with - uh…”

“Yes,” Natasha says softly. “She worked for a long time with child soldiers. A lot of them went through similar things to what Matt went through.”

They talk a while longer. Matt lets his attention drift. Karen isn’t in the apartment. He doesn’t remember her leaving. He snaps back to attention when the apartment door shuts.

Foggy’s footsteps walk to his room. The door opens. “Hey Matty. I just had to talk a bit about you to Natasha. I don’t want to think I’m hiding anything from you, so I’m going to fill you in on what we talked about, OK?”

Foggy sits on the floor beside the bed. He relays his conversation with Natasha. He includes the hug, describing it as both wonderful and a little bit terrifying.

Matt waits until he’s finished before searching for some words. “Yesterday morning?” It comes out croaky as if he hasn’t used his voice for a very long time.

He feels Foggy’s flinch through the mattress. “You say something Matt?” He sounds hopeful.

“You said.” He has to think carefully to find the right words. “You said the feelings talk. We had it yesterday morning. You said.” And yes, those are the right words. They aren’t in the right order, but he can’t find the energy to straighten them out.

Foggy leans against the side of the bed. “When did you think it happened?”

“This morning.”

Foggy’s breath comes out scared. His hand finds Matt’s, squeezes. “Buddy it’s Friday afternoon.”

He had his episode Wednesday evening. The feelings talk must’ve been on Thursday morning. How did he lose all that time? Where did it go?

Matt tries to find some kind of emotion. He should be shocked, shouldn’t he? Instead he feels nothing but faint surprise. “Did I take my pills today?”

“Yeah,” Foggy says. His hand grips Matt’s hard. “This morning, remember? The new anti nausea pills are working. You didn’t throw up.”

He doesn’t remember.

“Matty. That therapist I talked about. Fiona. I need you to see her. I’ll make an appointment. I just. I need you to try this, OK?”

Matt shakes his head. He can try harder. He can do better. “I can - I can-”

“No buddy.” The mattress moves as Foggy sits down on the floor, leaning against it. “You can’t.”

Something inside Matt breaks.

“You need help Matt,” Foggy says, hair rustling against the sheets as he leans his head back against the mattress. “And I can’t give it to you. All of this. The drifting away thing you do. The problems talking. The nightmares. The panic attacks. How you don’t eat. It’s too much Matt. You realise that stunt you did with your feet could probably get you sectioned?”

Matt forces in a breath. It tastes like pain.

“And I’m doing a terrible job right now. I’m not trying to blame you for any of it. It’s not your fault Matt. None of this is your fault. It’s just - it’s like you’re not there. You realise you broke your glasses that night? That’s not you Matt. You’d never do that. And the balloon Karen gave you. You broke that too. I know you’re all catholic and ‘don’t complain’ and everything, but there’s nothing wrong with getting some help when you need it.”

The world stops. Matt wets his lips. “I broke the balloon?”

“Yeah you-”

“I broke the balloon?” It comes out as a whine. He doesn’t remember that. He doesn’t remember any of that.

Fabric shifting as Foggy turns. The mattress dips. Foggy leaning his elbows on it. A skip of his heart. Surprised. “Seriously? That’s what gets you? You break everything in the cupboards. You ruin your feet. And you’re more messed up over the balloon?”

“Karen gave it-” the words break apart. “Foggy. I broke the balloon. I broke it.”

A hand runs through his hair, over his cheek. “I will buy you ten balloons if you stop crying right now. Karen understands. She doesn’t mind. And it was on its way out anyway. It’s fine buddy. It’s fine.”

Hot lines trace from his eyes to his temples. He blinks. He doesn’t feel like he’s crying. There are no sobs. No hitch to his breath. But the tears keep coming. They burn. “Foggy. I don’t remember. Why would I? Why would I break it?”

“I don’t know buddy.” Foggy leans closer. A patch of skin on his forehead lights up with warmth and Foggy’s heartbeat. Leaning his head lightly against Matt’s. “Please buddy. Just try the therapy. Just try it. Please.”

Matt takes a breath. This one comes out wet. He nods his head against Foggy’s. “OK Foggy, OK.”

***

Fiona has a little time that afternoon to meet him.

She smells like cats and coffee. She moves with a kind of an easy roll. Casual. Someone comfortable in their own skin. Her hair is short enough that he can’t hear it move. Her voice is steady and confident. Calming.

Matt sits on the couch in the small room. It’s not the same one where he had the interview, but it’s on the same floor. It smells like leafy plants. The carpet is too rough. Most carpets are. He tenses his legs to keep his bandaged feet hovering above it.

“Can I call you Matt?”

Matt nods. The action takes a lot out of him. He’d got up from the bed with Foggy’s help. Even managed to shave. The discomfort over having that annoying scruff finally winning out over the horrible sensations his electric razor makes vibrating over his jaw. Between that and walking down here, he doesn’t have any energy left.

“Matt. I want you to know you’re in control here. You make the rules. This is just a short session for us to get to know each other. Twenty minutes. No longer. Usually they last at least forty minutes. We can try that and see how it goes.” She shifts. She’s sitting on an armchair that sounds as soft as his couch. There’s something hard in her hands. A rustle of paper. A notepad maybe. “I understand you’ve been having trouble speaking?”

Another nod.

Foggy is a comfortable presence along his left side. Matt’s hand grips his sleeve. It hasn’t let go since Foggy made a move to leave once he’d supported him to the couch. Something wild and panicked flutters in his chest at the thought of Foggy leaving him alone with this stranger, no matter how nice she seems.

“The first thing I want to do is to see if we can get a system going.” There’s a smile in her voice. “Something that will tell me when to shut up. When I touch a nerve and need to back off. Since you only have one hand for now we’ll use a scale of five. Raise no fingers you’re feeling totally relaxed. One finger, and you’re feeling a little tense but OK to continue. Two fingers, we can continue but I need to be careful how I phrase things and ready to stop when you need me to. Three fingers, you’re definitely on edge and I need to move to a new topic. Four fingers, I stop talking and we take a break. Five fingers if you think you might be approaching a panic attack. We’ll stop whatever we’re doing. Decide whether you want to end the session early. Does that sound OK?”

It sounds elaborate. It sounds like something he shouldn’t need. He nods anyway.

“Are there any other methods of communication you use?” The scrape of pen across paper. What is she writing?

Matt removes his hand from Foggy’s sleeve to poke him in the side.

“Ow,” Foggy says, even though he didn’t poke him that hard. “And yeah. I guess I’ve kind of become Matt’s mouthpiece. I’ve known him longest. And he - he still talks to me sometimes.”

“Matt? Do you want Foggy to speak for you today?”

Matt nods. It’s strange giving someone permission to talk about him, but if it means less communication for him, he’s all for it. It’s becoming a weird kind of normal to struggle with words. Today is worse. Today even nodding his head feels like an uphill battle.

He wishes he were back in his bed, no people except Foggy around. It’s noisy here. The walls are thinner. The floors and ceiling thinner. He can hear people talk, breathe, move around. It’s loud.

“What settings make it easier to talk?” Movement of fabric. She’s leaning forward.

Matt leans heavily against the back of the couch. He turns his face in Foggy’s direction.

“Since. Uh. I guess about since the video came out he hasn’t really been able to talk to anyone but me or Karen.” Foggy’s heart-rate picks up. Nervous? Not really. Nervous sweat has a distinct smell. Upset though. He’s definitely upset. “And if anyone else is in the room he can’t even talk to me. I don’t think he’s talked to anyone else since Tuesday? Even then he found it difficult. And when he’s really upset, he can’t even talk to me.”

More scraping of pen against paper. “Matt? Can you describe how you feel when you try to speak to someone who isn’t Foggy or Karen? Anxious? Tense?”

Matt nods slowly. His jaw clenches.

“Where are we on that scale we talked about?”

He thinks a moment. Raises one finger.

“Thanks for letting me know. You look tired. Are you tired?”

Tired. Heavy. He nods.

“You’ve been through a lot,” Fiona says. “Emotional trauma can be just as draining as physical trauma. It’s not surprising that your body needs to rest. We just need to make sure that this is your body needing rest, and not some other reason. We’ll get to that. Today I want to give you some tools to help. Ones you can use right away. Our biggest priorities are the panic attacks and flashbacks. From what Foggy’s been telling me it seems like you’ve been putting yourself under a lot of pressure which isn’t helping things.”

Matt huffs a sigh.

“I don’t usually give homework on a first session, but I’d like you to try that scale I showed you. With Foggy if that’s who you’re most comfortable with. Foggy, I’d like you to ask Matt what number he’s on. Try to do it when you’re both alone if you can. And only a few times. I want you to help each other get used to it, not annoy each other.. Matt I want you to try to be honest. And Foggy, I want no judgements from you. No commentary. No nothing. It’ll be great if two can come up with a short list of tactics that help decrease stress or remove the stressful situation, and plan how you’ll implement them if the number if three or above, but if not don’t worry. That’s what we’ll focus on tomorrow. For now just get used to using the scale to assess and communicate how much stress you’re feeling at the time. My hope is we’ll be able to use this to head off big explosions before they happen. Does that sound doable for both of you?”

Matt gives a one sided shrug. Foggy says yes.

There’s a smile in Fiona’s voice. “Try Matt. That’s all I’m asking. If you do it once before our session tomorrow I’ll count it as a win.”

Matt slumps his head against Foggy’s shoulder. Trying sounds a lot right now. Trying to be honest about feelings sounds more than a lot. He nods anyway.

“It’s early days,” Fiona’s pen scrapes across paper. Cloth against cloth. Crossing one leg over the other. “Too early to tell what’s shock and what’s something more pervasive. But you might be interested looking up selective mutism. It’s a disorder where the person has an inability to speak in certain situations. I’m not saying that’s what your problems speaking are. We can’t know that yet. But there are a lot of similarities. One thing it’s important you know is it’s linked to anxiety. If you’re put under a lot of pressure to speak it’s likely to trigger more anxiety and make it even more impossible to speak. There are treatments, which we might not need if it goes away as the shock wears off. Right now focus on communicating in any way you’re comfortable with.”

Foggy shifts at his side. Maybe remembering when he’d asked Matt to say something with Bucky there. Matt leans a little more into his shoulder, trying to show him there were no hard feelings.

“We’ve got ten minutes left,” Fiona says. “I’m going to spend the rest of the session going through some tools you can use to ground yourself during a flashback.”

***

It’s a packed twenty minutes.

Matt drifts away through some of it, to the coffee maker starting four walls away, the women talking about hair products while walking down the corridor. He learns from a joke two men make on the other side of the building that Tony Stark has a goatee. What does a goatee even look like? He can’t remember. He’s not even sure his child self ever had a visual reference for that.

He comes back to Foggy tugging him to his feet. “Come on bud.”

They walk the short distance to the elevator. The carpet stabs his bandaged feet.

“That was good,” Foggy says when the elevator doors whoosh shut. His heart-rate is elevated. Skin slightly warm. Happy? Yes happy. “I know we’ve got a long way to go, but it’s nice to have something we can use for once. What did you think?”

Matt leans against Foggy’s side, trying to focus on the familiar heartbeat thrumming through his skin. Elevators are evil. They make his stomach flip flop in all kinds of horrible ways.

Foggy’s heart-rate slows. Not happy anymore. His voice softens. “Tired?”

Tired. Yes. So tired. But first there’s something more important than burrowing under his silk duvet. “Shower.”

“Sure,” Foggy says. There’s a smile in his voice. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but you are starting to need one. Want some help wrapping your arm?”

“Yeah.” Claire helped him last time. He remembers that. He didn’t want Foggy to help him, because? He doesn’t know. There was a reason he thinks. But his sluggish mind can’t find it. It can’t have been important.

The elevator doors open. Carpet that stabs slightly less. A click as their apartment door opens. No heartbeats inside.

No heartbeats. There was a question he wanted to ask about that. What was the question?

Foggy helps him sit on a chair in the small kitchen area. He thinks it might be near the table leg where they’d tied the balloon. The one he’d broken. The one Karen gave him that he _broke_. There. That’s the question. “Where’s Karen?”

Foggy freezes, rustling plastic in one of his hands. His heart-rate speeds up. Not happy this time. Upset. “Matt, Karen left. Don’t you remember? She came to say goodbye to you. She’s gone back to her apartment.”

Oh. There seems to be a lot he’s not remembering lately.

Foggy’s footsteps continue toward him, slower. “Her name isn’t on any of the media flying around, so it looks like she’s safe. She wanted to go back to her own bed. And there’s some footwork for the case that’s going to be a lot easier if she’s out there. Don’t worry though, she’ll be back to visit soon enough. You know Tony has a giant pool? It’s got waterfalls and slides. I swear it’s bigger than most houses. She was talking about trying it out.”

Foggy’s fingers close around the zip of the hoodie. A quick movement as he undoes it. “Let’s get this arm-” his pulse sky rockets. A choked sound.

Matt blinks the tiredness away. “Foggy, what is it?”

“Nothing.” His heart says lie. His fingers unhook the sling, move the plastic bags into place over the cast. The rip of medical tape as he starts fastening them in place. “You’re going to have this cast for another five weeks, right? Maybe we should invest in some kind of waterproof cover. It’ll be easier to get on, and probably work out cheaper than using all these plastic bags. Hey, maybe Tony has one already in that medical floor of his.” He talks a little too fast.

Something’s wrong. Matt doesn’t know what.

“Up then Matt,” Foggy says once he’s finished the job. “Shower’s that way. I’ll throw some fresh clothes in for you. Or, er, if you want to lock it I’ll put them just outside the door.”

Rubbing a hand across his face, Matt finds the door. He clicks it closed behind him, thinks for a moment, then doesn’t lock the door. It’s only Foggy here. He can trust Foggy. And he can tell by feel that the sliding shower door is one of those frosted glass ones.

He sets a couple of towels in reach of the shower, stumbles out of his clothes and bandages, stumbles into the shower. With the sliding door shut it’s nice. The constant movement of air is decreased to just this small space, just his movements. Once he figures out how to turn it on, the water hammers against his skin, patters loudly against the plastic bags.

It’s not a good idea to get the stitches on the bottom of his feet too wet. Running a hand over the braille labels, he gathers soap, shampoo and conditioner, sits with them on the bottom of the shower. It gets his feet out of the pool of water, and takes the weight off of them.

The water is cold. No. That’s not right. The water is warm. It’s pleasantly warm against his skin. Just the right temperature.

It’s been too long since his last shower. There’s grease in his hair. Days worth of sweat cling to his skin. He smells of Karen’s armchair, the police station, fear. He imagines he smells of Wright too.

He scrubs it all off, again and again. Loses count of how many doses of shampoo he scrubs into his hair, how much soap he scourers into his skin. It takes a long time, but finally tiredness wins out.

Resting his head against his knees he breathes. There’s soap and shampoo. Both simple scents. He’s not sure he could manage wearing something as bold as Foggy’s fake strawberry shampoo. Under it there’s clotting blood from his feet. The putrid hints of the clearing infection. The faintly iron scent of raw skin. The chemical smell of plastic bags.

The shower is cold. But no, it’s warm. And his arm is - his arm is fine. It’s casted, cradled to his chest to go easy on his shoulder. He’s fine. He’s just tired.

A knock on the frosted glass. It should make him startle. It doesn’t. Being startled takes energy.

“Matt? You OK in there?” The words are familiar, like Foggy’s said them before.

The shower door slides open letting in a wave of cold. That makes him flinch.

“Matty, you’ve been in there for ages. You done?” Fluttering heartbeat. Nerves.

There are words. Somewhere there are words. But they’re hidden under the black sludge that seems intent on pulling him down. He keeps his cheek resting on his knees, doesn’t move.

The water turns off, and Matt can’t work out if he’s happy or sad about it. “Come on buddy. Dry off and you can go back to bed.”

Time is a solid thing. It tastes of plastic, frosted glass, cooling steam. There’s an ember of warmth in his body left from the shower. He wraps himself around it.

A towel lands on his head. Another wraps around his body. Foggy’s heart hammers in his chest. His breathing is a wet sound. Upset. He’s upset. “Here we go Matty. Out of the shower.”

Hands on his upper arms. Gentle. His body jerks back anyway. Then his mind catches up. A heartbeat vibrates through those hands. Foggy. Foggy is safe. Foggy won’t hurt him.

“Shh Matty. You’re fine. You’re safe. We’re in our apartment in Avengers tower. Just you and me here.” The hands guide him into the cold air of the bathroom.

The tiled floor is cold underneath him. He wants to wrap the towel tighter around his body, but another part of him wonders if it’s worth the effort. If he had his silk duvet he could curl up and go to sleep right here. That would be nice.

The hands leave. He wants them back. “You with me Matty? Do you know where you are?”

He’s in - he’s in - Where is he? He was in the shower. His shower? Foggy was here, and now he’s not. There’s only his voice here now. Did Foggy call him? Is he late for work?

“Buddy can you tell me how you’re feeling?” Foggy’s voice is back. That’s good. “Use the scale we talked about?”

Scale? There was a woman called Fiona. She smells like cats and coffee. Bad coffee, but not as bad as the kind Karen makes. She said one, two, three, four, five. It meant something. It made Foggy happy. He wants it to make sense so he can make Foggy happy again, but it doesn’t. Nothing makes sense.

He just wants to sleep.

“Is it OK if I touch you?” Foggy’s voice sounds wet. His heartbeat - he’s sitting close in front of Matt and it’s still difficult to focus down, to find it among the other sounds.

This bathroom doesn’t smell like his bathroom. It’s too clean. Too new.

“Matt, you’re safe. You’re in our apartment at the Avengers tower. It’s just me and you here. You were having a shower. You’re safe. I promise you’re safe.” Gritted teeth. The smell of salt. “Please just answer me. Nod your head. Do something.”

Nod his head. He can do that. He - why does Foggy want him to do that? Before he can summon the energy to do it anyway, a hand touches his good shoulder. He flinches away.

“Shit man. Shit man. Shit.” Movement of air as Foggy stands up, backs out of the bathroom. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Mr Nelson,” a British voice says quietly from outside the bathroom. Jarvis, his mind tells him. “I sense you are in distress. Would you like me to contact someone to assist?”

A pause. A deep measured breath. “No. No. I need to deal with this by myself.”

The footsteps come back. The man crouches in front of him. The hands come back, but this time they stay long enough for Matt to feel Foggy’s heartbeat pulse through them. Foggy. Matt’s racing heartbeat slows.

“Come on Matty.” Foggy’s voice shakes. “Let’s get you dried off and dressed.”

***

Foggy’s voice making choking sobs.

The two concepts: Foggy and crying, sit separate for a long moment before they collide together. Matt’s entire body tenses under the covers. Foggy is crying. His ears reach out, narrow in on his friend’s stuttered breathing through force of will alone.

“It’s been over a week. How can he still be so bruised? He - I could see their finger marks Claire. One of the bastards actually bit him. _Bit him!_ And I’m surrounded by the Avengers, and they’re all so brilliant, and friendly, and they want to help. But I can’t talk to them about this. I can’t ask them to help because I’m not sure Matt would forgive me. His privacy’s already been fucked to hell. I don’t want to add to that. So I had to call you, because you’re the only person I have any level of friendship with who’s seen the bruises. Because you did, didn’t you? When you wrapped his arm for the shower? And I mean this in the kindest most loving way possible, but we’re not even friends!”

A pause.

“Yeah,” Foggy says. Less sobbing this time. “We should be. We should be friends. But I’m just - I need someone to talk to about this. Which I know is horribly selfish. Matt’s the one going through hell, not me. And I keep messing it up. I learnt less that three hours ago how to deal with flashbacks. Then he has one - I think he had one - and I immediately break a fucking golden rule and touch him without his permission. He flinched Claire. Like I was one of those monsters who attacked him. I made him flinch. And then in the end I couldn’t think of anything else to do. I couldn’t leave him there like that. What if he had another episode and this time whoever helped saw all those bruises? He’d hate that. So I dried him off, got him dressed. I tried to get him to help me, but it’s like he couldn’t understand me, or maybe he could and he was just shaking too much. I don’t know. He just sat there and let me do it. I’ve no idea if he knew it was me. Maybe he thought it was them and was too scared to do anything. I don’t know if I made things better or worse.”

Another pause.

“I don’t know what to do,” Foggy chokes out. “He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t eat. How’s he supposed to make a statement like this? How’s he supposed to tell me what he needs? Or engage in therapy? Or be Matt again?” The sobs work their way up to hysterical hitching breaths.

‘Get to work,’ his father says in his head. His voice, younger, pleads to be able to sleep now, fix it later. But no, this is important.

This is Foggy.

Somehow he struggles himself to a sitting position. The whole world rocks. His arm shivers. The bed is warm and promises rest. The room is cold.

But Foggy’s still crying.

He shoves his feet over the bed. No gauze on them this time. Just adhesive bandages covering the worst wounds. The fake wood bites into his skin. Pushing himself to his feet, he sways a moment.

Foggy sobs inconsolably in the next room. He’s never heard him so upset.

One step, then another. He counts them off one by one. Walking to his bedroom door, opening it, walking across the living room to the sofa is impossible. He’d never be able to do it. Taking just one more step, then another after that is slightly less than impossible.

Foggy’s breathing doesn’t change until he’s nearly at the couch. His heart jumps. His sobs stop. His next few breaths are wet, like he’s trying and failing to say something.

Collapsing on the couch, Matt leans against Foggy’s side, hooking his good arm around his neck and hugging him. It’s not as good as the hugs Foggy gives him. He knows that. But he hopes it gives some comfort.

Foggy’s startled breaths last a heartbeat more before he dissolves into a fresh round of tears. He hunches into Matt’s embrace. A hand reaches up to grip his arm, squeezing tight.

Matt leans his forehead against the side of Foggy’s skull and hopes the action manages what his words can’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coping tips = 
> 
> Grounding yourself during a flashback: Here's a good guide. It's slanted toward child abuse survivors, but has good tactics for anyone who needs to learn to ground themselves during flashbacks or dissociation: http://www.lifecentre.uk.com/dealing_with_the_effects/flashbacks.html
> 
> As a quick summary, there are three things you need to know to ground yourself. 
> 
> One: remind yourself when/where you are, and that the abuse is over and in the past. 
> 
> Two: Focus on deep breathing techniques. 
> 
> Three: Concentrate on what you can sense about the world around you. Specific technique will vary as to what works best for you. As an example, you could try counting the number of objects in the room of a specific color. Or stamp your feet on the floor. Or focus on what sounds you're hearing. Matt (when he gets the hang of it) tends to focus on textures to ground himself to the world around him.


	10. Chapter 10

“What did I say about only walking to the bathroom?” Bucky asks as soon as they step off the elevator onto the communal floor.

Foggy gives a dry laugh. His arm guides Matt across the room, toward the giant sofa Bucky had sat on when they first met him. “You forgot to factor in therapy. And Matt.”

Bucky sits somewhere else now. On a slightly smaller object on the giant couch’s right. Another couch? Two armchairs sit on the giant couch’s left. An object in front of the giant couch. Low down. Smells of wood polish. A coffee table.

Matt’s cane finds the edge of the giant couch. He reaches out, sinking into the soft leather. Not bad. It’s at least as comfortable as the one at his apartment, and he spent so long sitting on every couch he could afford to find that one. The back of the couch smells of metal, rose shampoo, machine oil, dog, fabric softener, paper. A mix of everyone’s scents.

“Therapy sucks,” says the second heartbeat in the room aside from him and Foggy. It comes from the other end of the couch Bucky’s sitting on. Captain America sounds like he’s pouting.

“Steve has the biggest pout on his face right now,” Foggy says, confirming it. “It’s almost as impressive as your pouts.”

Matt shakes his head. He does not pout.

Foggy moves to one of the armchairs, grabs something from the back of one of them. “Don’t give me that Murdock. You are the king of pouts, and any other expressions remotely similar to a kicked puppy.”

Matt shakes his head again.

“You’re pouting right now.” Foggy throws the object on his lap. It’s a fleece blanket, big and soft, and only slightly smelling from all the people who’d used it. It almost makes Matt want to forgive Foggy for the pouting comment.

Flesh against flesh. Steve makes a pained noise. It’s hard to tell, but Matt thinks Bucky just kicked him. “Oh my God Steve, there’s someone with bigger puppy dog eyes than you!” Bucky sounds distinctly awed.

Steve chuckles. “They are pretty impressive.”

“I know, right?” Foggy sounds as proud as if he’d created whatever look is going on on Matt’s face himself. “You are too adorable for your own good Murdock. I’m officially jealous.”

Matt hopes his new expression conveys that he thinks they’re all idiots.

Therapy had gone all right. Forty minutes is a long time to stay focused when there are people working all around you. But the bits he’d tuned in for seemed useful. Foggy had sat in with him again, and they’d spent most of the session talking about the scale system and coming up with a list of things that decrease his tension. Exercise, meditation, anything soft or tactile, wrapping himself in soft blankets, listening to music, television, touch, spending time with Foggy, reading. Foggy had insisted that feelings talks also go on the list even though they’re clearly evil.

They’d also touched on the possibility of anti anxiety medications, and using sedatives as rescue medication in the case of really severe attacks. They’d all agreed that sedatives shouldn’t be considered unless there was no possible alternative. Fiona had been very vocal about the dangers of their overuse. Anti anxiety medications they’d been more mixed about. Fiona said they could be very effective combined with other therapies. Foggy seemed to want to try them straight away. Matt was the one who said no, and luckily it was his opinion that mattered.

His system is out of whack enough as it is without adding more stuff to knock it off balance.

“Your ipod and Thurgood Marshall,” Foggy says, handing the items over. “I’ll be back in less than an hour. Listen to your babysitters, but not Steve. Don’t listen to Steve, because therapy doesn’t suck.”

Foggy’s footsteps march toward the elevators. Off to his therapy session.

Matt hadn’t argued when Foggy told him he couldn’t leave him alone while he went to therapy. It’s not like he’d earned that trust after the last time he was left alone. So his choices were come down here or have someone stay in the apartment with him. This seemed the better option. At least he can pretend he’s not down here just because he needs a babysitter now. And the thought of others coming into his apartment still sets him on edge.

The elevator whooshes open. Foggy steps inside. Matt follows his heartbeat down until he loses it.

Flesh against flesh again. Another pained noise from Steve. There’s a grin in Bucky’s voice. “’Therapy sucks,’ you’re such a bad role model Captain America.”

Scuffling noises. Bucky and Steve’s heartbeats are on either end of the sofa, but their feet seem to be tangled in the middle. And they’re kicking each other, like a pair of children.

“Therapy does suck,” Steve says, panting. “You say exactly the same thing when it’s your therapy day.”

“Well maybe that’s ‘cause mine is twice a month. Yours is only once a month. You get off easy.”

The scuffling pauses. “Maybe I can talk about bananas. I have a lot of feelings about the taste of bananas in this century.”

“Or the Dodgers.”

Steve growls. “Don’t start about the Dodgers.”

“See now you have to go to therapy. Work all that anger out.”

The sound of hair brushing against leather. Steve shaking his head. “There’s no amount of therapy that can do that. The Dodgers Bucky. The Dodgers!”

“I know,” Bucky says, his voice growling too. “Or you could focus on the things that are really bothering you. Y’know, like you’re supposed to do in therapy.”

A sigh. Scratching of pencil over paper. Writing something? No. The movements sound smoother, less uniform. Sketching. “Am I always this logical with you when it’s your Saturday?”

“Always.” Bucky sounds fond. “Now focus on something else until it’s time to get it over with.”

Another sigh, but the sound of pencil on paper continues.

Matt draws a finger across his book. It’s his favourite. There are a lot of Thurgood Marshall quotes in it that speak to him. There’s one in particular that his fingers pause over. ‘None of us got where we are solely by pulling ourselves up by our bootstraps. We got here because somebody - a parent, a teacher, an Ivy League crony or a few nuns - bent down and helped us pick up our boots.’

He knows most of the common ones by heart, and that one keeps popping into his head. He thought he knew what it meant. Without his dad he wouldn’t be so determined. He wouldn’t have been able to fight for his education, or keep going when things got difficult. Without the nuns his childhood would’ve lacked the few bits of compassion they’d had time to send his way, not to mention all those lessons on manners. Without Stick he’d be in an institution somewhere, screaming about voices with his hands over his ears.

Sometimes you need people to teach you tools to use in life. Even after he thought he was done learning, Foggy came into his life and taught him how to laugh and mean it. How to let someone in, and yes, expect that they would leave again. But also expect that they wouldn’t leave for long enough that he could sit back and enjoy it.

The quote is a niggling question in the back of his mind. That question is: does he have more to learn? Can he learn whatever tools he needs on his own? Or does he need some mentor like Stick, like Fiona to help him find them? Stick left because he was too weak. He doesn’t think Fiona will leave. Not while Tony Stark is paying her. But she’d see how weak he really is. Foggy would see. The Avengers would see.

The Avengers think they’re helping Daredevil. The Devil is there to be feared. He’s there to make criminals think twice before hurting the innocent. But the man in that video by the end wasn’t the Devil.

What if Tony realises he made a mistake? What if there are no tools out there to get back to the way he was, and they give up on him? What if Foggy gives up on him?

“Murdock, you hear me?” Bucky’s voice.

Matt jerks his head up. Tilts it toward the other couch.

“There you are.” Bucky and Steve’s heartbeats settle into a slower rhythm. Relieved. “Today’s going to be kind of a lazy day. We tend to schedule our therapy sessions for Saturdays. Sort of space them out, so a few go through it every Saturday, and a few are there to be the calm heads. ‘Cause while therapy is important.” A slap of flesh against flesh again. A protesting noise from Steve. “It can suck sometimes. Then we take the day to watch movies, play games, whatever we want. It’s really low pressure. Anyone doesn’t want to do something, they don’t. Anyone wants to hide out in their room, that’s fine.”

“Except Clint,” Steve adds. “He’s not allowed to be unsupervised after therapy. Not after he put arrows through his apartment wall.”

Bucky snorts. “Which was really stupid. We have our own shooting range.” “Today it’s me, Sam, and Clint.” A pause. “And now you and Foggy.”

He says it like it’s nothing. Like therapy is as normal as going to the dentist or the gym. It sounds like it is for these guys. It’s strange. He’d never associated the Avengers as being big on therapy. Sure, everyone in the world knows Bucky goes, but that’s Bucky. He’s not exactly going to get away with saying ‘hey brainwashed assassin here. I’m a good guy now. No, why would I need to see a shrink about the fact I killed all those people. Totally fine. I’ve decided I won’t do it again. You can take my word for it.’

The far off humming of the elevator. Matt cocks his head. There’s a heartbeat. Not Foggy’s. It’s unfamiliar. Someone he hasn’t met. His hand moves from the book to clutch the fleece blanket.

Bucky’s voice. Cautious. “Matt what is-”

The elevator doors whoosh open. Unfamiliar footsteps move out of them. A steady pace. Sure of themselves. Not as smooth as Clint, Natasha, Steve, or Bucky. Not clumsy either. Someone who does a lot of running. His heart beats a little too fast. Upset. He smells of cinnamon, metal, and mint.

“Oh hey Sam,” Steve says, sounding surprised. “Matt, this is Sam.”

Sam’s footsteps march to Bucky and Steve’s sofa. His body flops onto the leather moments after a scrape says the two men pulled their feet out of the way. His muscles are tense.

“Hi Matt,” Sam says, voice tight. No wet in his voice. Frustrated maybe. “I’ll give you a better introduction later. A really nice one. I’m actually the polite one around here. Ignore what everyone says about stars and stripes.”

Fabric against fabric. Steve? Nudging Sam. “Productive session?”

“So productive,” Sam says. “Too productive. I’m going to feel great tomorrow. But for now, not so much.”

Fabric against fabric. Another nudge. This one from Bucky. “You know what’ll make you feel better…”

“Screw you Barnes.” Sharp movement as Sam gets to his feet. “I am going to stress bake. Not for you, but for me.”

A sharp sound of flesh against flesh. He’s pretty sure Steve and Bucky high fived.

Sam’s footsteps move toward the kitchen area.

“How about those chocolate cookies?” Bucky calls out. “The ones you put little marshmallows in.”

“Nooo,” Steve groans. “I mean they’re good. Great even. But what about blueberry muffins? You make delicious blueberry muffins.”

“Excuse you,” Sam says. The sound of cupboards opening. “I make delicious everything. My mother raised me right. And Matt gets to choose the first batch. He hasn’t had a turn yet.”

“What will it be Matt?” Steve asks, sounding a lot more cheerful now that Sam’s baking. “Chocolate cookies or blueberry muffins?”

Matt tries to work out if they’re being pitying. It doesn’t seem like it. Sam said a turn, like he’s part of something. Like when he goes to the Nelson’s home for Christmas. The youngest opens their presents first. That’s Foggy’s little sister Candace. Then Matt as second youngest, then Foggy, and finally Mrs and Mr Nelson.

Only, maybe he’s wrong. Maybe they are being pitying and trying to hide it. Heartbeats don’t tell him everything.

“Pick chocolate,” Bucky stage whispers.

“No.” Steve chuckles. Flesh against flesh. Steve shoving Bucky. “Pick blueberry muffins.”

Matt points toward Bucky who cheers. Maybe it is an act of pity, but he does like chocolate.

He can tell at least that Bucky’s enthusiasm when he tells Sam the verdict isn’t faked.

***

The hum of the elevator.

“Buddy.” Foggy sounds tired. “You’re eating remember. Take another mouthful.”

The soup is good. Chicken. The minimum of spices. A few veg. A lot of water to make the consistency almost as smooth as water. It’s from a tiny place barely anyone knows about. Overpriced for something so watered down. But well made with no contaminants. It’s a comfort food. Something he can eat even on his worst days.

He takes another sip. It’s cold. When Foggy handed it to him it was warm.

The elevator doors whoosh open. He recognises one heartbeat, but not the other. The stranger is female. High heels. A smooth, confident walk. He wouldn’t be surprised if she could handle herself in a fight, but she’s not in tune enough with her body to be much of an athlete. Her scent is ink, paper, blueberries.

Sam moves around the kitchen, grumbling to himself. The first batch of cookies is almost done. They smell good. Bucky doesn’t move from the couch. Every now and then there’s a slide of paper as he turns the page of whatever he’s reading. Steve left to go to therapy shortly after Foggy came back.

Tony’s footsteps walk toward them at his usual careless speed. The stranger follows at a more sedate pace.

“Look Pepper. Did you see what I brought back?” Tony stands on the other side of the coffee table. Some kind of large gesture with his hands. “The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Or Daredevil. I think I like Daredevil better. Less of a mouthful. I did good. Didn’t I do good?”

Matt hunches his shoulders. Tony’s a good distance away from the couch, but he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s hovering over him.

“You’d do better if you didn’t loom over him,” Pepper says firmly. Skin against fabric. She pushes Tony gently into one of the armchairs. “Or treat him like a stray kitten you brought home.”

“I wasn’t looming,” Tony sounds disgruntled. Fabric shifting as he suddenly straightens up. “Hey birdbrain two! Another for the list. Looming when you’re not looming.”

List?

“On it!” Sam shouts back. Scratch of pen across paper in the kitchen area.

“Matt Murdock,” Pepper’s voice says. She’s close. A little crouched down. “I’m holding out my hand for you to shake. I’m Pepper Potts. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Matt settles the mug of soup next to him on the couch. Her hand is slim in his grasp. Not delicate though. Her fingertips speak of lots of time flicking through paperwork. Calluses where she holds a pen. Light wear in the skin on the back of her knuckles, like she’s taken up self defence recently. Her heart thrums calm and steady down his arm.

He lets go. This would be where he gives his own charming comment. It’s a pleasure to meet her too. Or how impressed he is at all the work she’s done for the company. Or even that he’s grateful for the help she’s given him and Foggy. Instead there are no words. He could give a smile instead, but he’s afraid it would look too stretched and fake right now.

Fabric against wood. She settles on the coffee table. “I’ve got a lot to discuss with the both of you, but it’s Saturday, and we’ve got a rule against working on Saturdays around here.”

“Which Banner is breaking,” Tony pipes up from his armchair.

“And he will be reprimanded,” Pepper says, sounding fond. “So we’ll get down to work tomorrow. For now my very important question is what are your votes for takeout tonight?”

Matt turns his face in Foggy’s direction.

“You have no idea what you just asked.” The movement of hair. Foggy shaking his head. “Matt can be picky. Hey, stop with the guilty look buddy. He just has really delicate taste-buds. Like really delicate. So you’re going to need a pen. Or a tablet. Yeah, that’ll work. Right. I’m going to give you the Matt approved places to get take out. All in Hell’s Kitchen I’m afraid, but it should give you an idea. Don’t ask why a place you like isn’t on the list. Trust me, don’t. You’ll never be able to get the images out of your head.”

***

“I was right!” Tony shouts as soon as the elevator doors open. “Super senses!”

Natasha’s footsteps and heartbeat. And another stranger. This one male. Shuffling footsteps. He doesn’t lift his feet high enough. A slow heartbeat. An odd mix of scents. Sharp soap. Chemicals he can’t place. Blueberries.

There’s a slow smile in the stranger’s words. “It was the most obvious explanation.”

“What about telepathy, precognition, seeing eye monkeys.” Tony huffs. “You have no imagination Big Green.”

“Monkeys?” Foggy asks.

“This is Bruce Banner,” Pepper says, still perching on the coffee table. She taps away at something buzzing with electricity. “Bruce this is Matt Murdock, and you’ve met Foggy.”

“Hey.” Somehow Banner manages not to loom. “Have you shaken enough hands today, or are you up for one more?”

Matt sticks out his hand. Banner’s hand is surprisingly soft. He’d imagined something hard with calluses from all the smashing Hulk does. That steady heartbeat highlights his bones. There’s something on his ribcage that doesn’t line up. An old fracture that didn’t heal right. He finds his ears following it automatically, looking at the rest of the skeleton. There are a lot of healed breaks, most of them from years and years ago.

Matt releases his hand feeling like he’d seen something intimate.

“Is no one else going to talk about the monkeys?” Foggy asks.

Bruce moves backward. The squash of fabric as he settles into the armchair next to Tony’s. “Any idea what’s on the agenda today?”

“Votes are in. We’re getting thai.” Pepper taps at the electronic thing. “It’ll be here at six. Up until then it’s your usual whatever you want to do. Matt, do you or Foggy have any topics you prefer to avoid in movies?”

Matt shifts uncomfortably.

“We’ve been sticking to animated movies so far. Disney. Pixar.” A smile enters Foggy’s voice. “They were always his favourite kind anyway. What was that explanation you gave me Matt? Something about liking the black and white moral messages, and how good always wins. So anything like that sort of theme. He liked Harry Potter, Star Wars, and Die Hard too. Just er. He’s never liked any movie where the bad guy gets too brutal with innocents. Not too much suffering.” His breath stutters like he wants to add something else. “Anything else you want to steer clear of Matt?”

Matt shrugs a shoulder. He knows what Foggy wanted to add. He knows what he wants to add. If he hears any semblance of a sex scene right now there’s a big chance he’s going to lose it like he did in Karen’s apartment. Which is stupid. He’s spent years waking up in the middle of the night because someone somewhere has no decency to consider the poor guy with super-senses who just wants to sleep dammit. He should be desensitised. He thought he was desensitised.

But these are the Avengers. They’re not stupid. They know enough not to show anything with sex scenes to a guy who just got - attacked.

“New parameters are entered,” Jarvis says from three points in the room. “Might I suggest the animated movie ‘Home.’ It’s on several of your to watch lists.”

Bucky laughs. “Clint’ll be happy. He’s been wanting to watch that for ages.”

“Here.” Tony leans away from his chair, passing something that buzzes with electricity to Foggy. “Help him fill this out while we wait for the stragglers. I know, touch pad. I need to program better accessibility options.”

“What are you up to?” Pepper asks with suspicion.

“Important Intel,” Tony says.

Foggy barks a laugh. His hand pats Matt on the side, careful to avoid his arm. “This is great Matt. We have to do this. It’s a hogwarts sorting quiz. Ready to find out what house you’re in?”

Hogwarts. Like Harry Potter? He did enjoy the books, and the movies. Matt finally finishes the last of the soup, placing it on the floor. He shuffles to lean the side of his head against the back of the sofa, facing Foggy. People really make quizzes for that?

Foggy asks the questions, giving a few options. Matt mostly makes confused faces because none of it makes any sense. Would he give all the money he’d saved for a bike to a kid with a deathly ill mother? Probably. It’s a bike versus a life. Who wouldn’t? Would he try to nurse the mother back to health at the same time? If he had the time and skill base, then sure. Would he pick up a friend stranded on the side of the road after getting home from a long shift? Presuming he could drive safely in this scenario, then definitely.

Luckily Foggy knows him better than he knows himself. They get through them quickly with a little steering from Foggy. “Dude, don’t give me that. Do I have to list every time you fell behind on your work because you were helping me with mine? Or that girl Anna who totally made you write her assignment for her? You definitely would help even if it impacted your own work. You’re choosing D.”

“Hufflepuff,” Foggy says finally, handing back the electronic thing.

“Huh,” Tony says. A pause like he’s staring. “Not what I expected. But hey, science. Unexpected results. Roll with it.”

Fabric against leather as Bruce leans over toward the electronic thing. “I don’t think an internet questionnaire counts as science.”

“Thor will be happy he’s not the only one in Hufflepuff.” There’s a smile in Pepper’s voice, but her heart is too fast. Upset? Bucky’s is too, and maybe Bruce’s.

“He-” There’s wet in Bucky’s voice. So faint that no one without super-senses could tell. “He always been this selfless?”

Foggy’s foot taps his leg. “You mind if I regale them with how you got your superpowers?”

They aren’t superpowers. Matt gives a half shrug anyway. It’s not like no one could figure it out. It’s been all over the newspapers.

“So this truck’s about to hit this old man, right?” Foggy makes some kind of motion with his hands. “Then out of nowhere runs Matt Murdock. Nine years old. Knocks the guy out of the way. Saves his life. Loses his eyesight to a bunch of dodgy chemicals in the process.”

Foggy makes it sound much more dramatic than it actually was. It had all happened so fast. He didn’t have time to think about it. He barely remembers what was going through his head. Only that the guy was about to die, and he could do something to stop it.

Natasha walks over from the kitchen area. Her footsteps are almost silent. He’s not sure he would’ve noticed except for her heartbeat. “A real hero.”

Most of the others make various noises of agreement.

Matt flushes and shakes his head. He’s no hero. Particularly not for something that happened across a few seconds so many years ago.

“We’ll agree to disagree on that one buddy.” A smile in Foggy’s voice.

The elevator again. He raises his head, tilting it a little to the side to listen for heartbeats. Two of them. Steve’s strong steady beat, a little faster than he thinks it should be. Clint’s heart, rabbit fast and constantly changing rhythm.

Tony gives a surprised chuckle. “My stray is so much cuter than Steve’s strays. Look at that head tilt.”

Pepper’s voice is warm. “Technically Steve is one of your strays.”

The elevator whooshes open. Steve steps off at a faster pace than he’s heard from him before. It doesn’t sound as loud as he’d expected. His footsteps are quieter than when he walks, and much too quiet for a man his size. He moves at a steady pace toward Bucky’s heartbeat. A protesting creak from the leather couch. Bucky makes a pained noise.

“Christ Stevie you’re not scrawny anymore. Don’t squish me.” A whap sound. Bucky hitting Steve with his book.

“But you’re so comfy.” Shifting. Another pained groan from Bucky. There’s a smile in Steve’s voice. “I might just lie here all day.”

Bucky sighs. “How does no one know you’re such an ass?”

“My point.” Tony makes some kind of wild gesture with his hands. “Steve is an adorable overgrown puppy. Daredevil is an adorable less overgrown puppy. Banner. Well Banner isn’t a puppy. He’s an adorable little kitten who gets distracted by shiny science and curls up in weird places to sleep. I have great taste. My strays are all adorable. Much better than Steve’s growly robocop and Mr Sarcasm over there.”

“Mr Sarcasm is the one making a jam and coconut sponge cake!” Sam yells from the kitchen area.

“I love you!” Tony calls back.

“You better,” Sam growls. “It’s going to have butter-cream icing. And I _may_ consider adding sprinkles.”

“We’re hugging?” Clint asks, making his way over to Bucky and Steve’s heartbeats. “Are we hugging?”

Another creak of the leather couch. Another groan from Bucky.

“So in an odd turn of events all the Avengers appear to be five year olds,” Foggy says seriously. “I don’t know how much you can see of this Matt, but Bucky Barnes has been tragically lost under a pile of both Captain America and Hawkeye.”

Tony claps his hands. “Okay kids! Cookies and milk, then we watch a movie.”

***

The cookies smell wonderful.

The chocolate is rich. Not that cheap stuff with loads of additives. They’re buttery and gooey, and while he’s not usually a fan of marshmallows, these ones don’t smell bad. They’re tiny marshmallows. Not that many of them. No weird ingredients. The gooey texture he usually hates will be fine mixed with the gooey chocolate. A nice sugary taste to make the cookie even more interesting.

He tries a few crumbs first, touching the top of his cookie lightly, then raising the finger to his mouth. It’s good. It’s great. One of the best chocolate cookies he’s ever had. Better than Mrs Nelson’s cookies, although he’d never tell her or Foggy that.

Shifting on the sofa cushion, he breaks off a tiny chunk of cookie smaller than the size of his pinkie nail, pops it in his mouth. And no. This isn’t going to work.

His stomach clenches in protest. The cookie is perfect. It’s too perfect. It’s rich, and delicious, and too much chocolaty wonderfulness for his taste-buds to process. His taste-buds want to tell him exactly how delicious the cookie is, down to every last atom. It’s too much.

Pushing the plate a safe distance away, he brings his knees to his chest. He hides his face in his legs to block out some of the tempting smell. A disappointed whimper escapes his throat.

All the chewing noises around the room stop. A few heartbeats speed up. Right, he’d almost forgotten. It’s not just him and Foggy here. The Avengers are here too. They didn’t live with him through college. They don’t know this side of him.

Foggy’s heartbeat doesn’t speed up. He places his cookie down on his own plate. A hand ruffles Matt’s hair. “Well, since you’re actually complaining I know you’re not hurt. So what is it?”

Talking. That’s another thing he’d forgotten he couldn’t do. Sure, he might be a tiny bit on edge. But he’s more relaxed than he’d ever thought he’d be around these strangers. Why is it still so impossible to speak?

“You didn’t like the cookie?”

Dropping his knees, he shakes his head rapidly. He raises his arm, trying to signal his frustration to Foggy.

Foggy’s heart skips in surprise. “Oh. Oh. You liked the cookie.”

Matt nods just as rapidly. He runs a hand through his hair.

“Matt. You loved the cookie?”

Slumping against the back of the couch, he nods. The air is filled with wonderful cookie smell. His own cookie is inches from his feet. He could reach out and eat it, like all the others are doing. But his stomach won’t let him.

“You’re in love with the cookie,” Foggy says, a smile in his voice that shouldn’t be there in this horrible time. “But your haywire taste-buds won’t let you eat the cookie?”

Matt doesn’t think Foggy is taking this seriously enough. He nods, making a frustrated sound.

A pause. “Well I don’t know if I should offer my condolences, or whether it’s too bad taste to tease you by eating my cookie right here and making satisfied noises.”

Matt gives Foggy a light shove on the knee.

“Right. Bad taste. I’ll be the good friend and give you my utmost sympathy.” A pause. “But I’m not sure my sympathy extends to not eating my cookie. I can try to act like I’m not happy about it though?”

Matt glares, trying his best to focus his eyes in his friend’s direction.

“Look, you can try again later,” Foggy says. A little genuine sympathy enters his voice. “And if that doesn’t work, then I’m sure Sam will make his cookies of deliciousness another time.”

“Count on it,” Sam says, his voice coming from the furthest armchair from the couch.

Bucky’s voice comes from the other side of Foggy on the giant couch. Him and Steve moved there, giving Tony, Bruce, and Pepper the smaller couch since the three seemed intent on fussing over something on one of the electronic things. “Why doesn’t he try mixing it with something on his safe list? That’s - um. That’s what I did when I was getting used to new tastes.”

“Bucky, you are both dashingly handsome, and a genius.” Foggy shifts on the couch. “What do you say Matt? Oatmeal and chocolate cookie?”

That could work. Matt shrugs. He does want to eat the cookie.

“No,” Foggy says, as if sensing Matt’s intention to get off the couch and find the oatmeal himself. “Stay. I’ll do it. Stop looking guilty Murdock. You can at least try to stay off those feet.”

Clint whines from where he and Natasha share an armchair. Matt’s not sure how that seating arrangement works, but their breathing sounds comfortable enough. “Tony, are you guys finished yet? Can we start the movie?”

Skin against plastic as Bruce snatches the electronic thing from Tony’s hands. He passes it to Pepper who places it beside her on the couch.

Tony makes a protesting noise, then sighs. “Start the movie.”

***

The day is a good one.

It’s not something Matt expected to happen, not even when he’d woken an hour before his therapy session that morning and felt faintly human again. The idea of spending time in a room with all those people seemed impossible, but the Avengers made it relatively painless.

Matt’s spot was the cushion furthest to the left of the giant couch. It’s a large space, with a solid wall of padded sofa behind him, looping around to block part of his left side from view as well. No one moved into that space.

The cushion next to his was Foggy’s. No one moved into that space either, not even when Foggy got up to do something.

While Steve and Bucky took up the last two cushions during the movies, they made it clear that they’d leave whenever he wanted them to.

The movies were good. Home was funny. It made Foggy laugh several times.

They squabble for a bit afterwards, fighting over which movie to choose next. They ask Matt’s opinion, and don’t seem to mind that he just shrugs. When Foggy asks if he wants to stay here or go to his room, Matt genuinely doesn’t mind choosing to stay there. Foggy is having a good time. Matt isn’t having a bad one. And he’s a bit sick of his bed after spending so long in it.

Toy Story comes next. They decide to marathon all three movies. Matt listens to the audio description, tilting his head occasionally to pick up an extra layer of sound that only seems possible to hear on Tony’s amazing speaker system. He makes his way slowly through the oatmeal, occasionally crumbling a little more cookie into the mix. It works pretty well, though he has to stop often when his taste-buds start complaining.

The remote sits on the armrest to his left. They’d given it to him at the start of the first movie, telling him to pause it if he needed a break.

They’re a good way into the first Toy Story movie and he’s feeling all right. The warm presence of Foggy at his side keeps him grounded when he starts to think too much, along with the soothing motion of brushing his knuckles repeatedly back and forth over the fleece blanket. Then he notices it.

Buzz Lightyear falls from a staircase. His arm gets knocked off. Bucky’s muscles go tense and his pulse skyrockets.

Matt listens carefully for a couple of seconds, but Bucky’s pulse stays high. His breath is a little wet. Fumbling with the remote, Matt presses the pause button.

Matt stays still, remote in hand, listening.

“You OK Matty?” Foggy asks. Concern in his voice. “You want to take a break?”

It takes a further ten seconds for Bucky’s pulse to stop racing. By the end his breath is a little too hard. Steve shifts in his seat as if he’s finally noticed something.

Matt moves carefully on the sofa, leaning across Foggy to hold the remote just outside Bucky’s space. He keeps his actions slow, not wanting to startle him.

Metal fingers close around the plastic. The impact makes that interesting noise he’d noticed before. The sound-waves are crisper than any metal he’s heard. “Thanks pal.” Bucky sounds out of breath.

Matt retreats quicker than he should, pressing his back into the corner of the couch. His hand finds the fleece blanket.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “I’ve seen this before. It didn’t affect me then. I just had a stupid moment.”

“Validation of feelings,” Clint says from his armchair. The words sound route, like he’s said them many times before.

“What Clint said.” Steve’s voice is soft. “I don’t care if - I don’t know - cotton candy sets you off. You feel bad, you’re allowed to feel bad. Don’t feel stupid for being triggered.”

Tony shifts on his sofa next to Bruce. “You need anyone to back off or fuck off?”

“Nah,” Bucky says. Pulse slowing down. Breathing deep and measured. “Just give me a minute.”

They sit in silence. Matt spreads the fleece blanket across his knees, resting his cheek on it. His fingers fiddle with the edge.

“OK. Ready.” A click as Bucky presses a button. The movie continues.

***

‘ _Stop.’ It comes out as a choke. And that’s - he’s begging. He’s not allowed to beg. Stick will be mad. But there are hands on his hips, and they won’t let him move. Except when the man - and then he moves. The alley scrapes his face, chest, legs. Like he’s some kind of rag-doll instead of a person. Hands grip his arms, his face. He should fight, but instead all he wants to do is hide. The pain is paralysing. It stabs through him again and again. Something tears. He can hear it._

_The pain rocks him to the edge of consciousness. His head swims. His body flashes from numb to agony and back. But he doesn’t fall over the edge. As much as he wants to, he doesn’t. And this is how many? Three, he thinks. Three. He thought he knew what was coming after the second, but this is more. This hurts more than anything. He wants it to ‘Please stop. Stop. Stop. Please.’_

“Matty, come on. Wake up.” A familiar voice. A familiar heartbeat. “Wake up Matty. It’s Foggy. I got you. You’re safe.”

Matt blinks. He’s shaking. He’s not crying, but his lungs hitch like they’re shivering too. They won’t let him take a full breath. The familiar heartbeat throbs down his arm. “Fog-Foggy.”

“There you are buddy.” Relief in Foggy’s voice. “You’re safe. You had a nightmare. It’s over. OK Matty? It’s over.”

Foggy’s hand leaves his arm. The heartbeat stops throbbing through his body. He whimpers. He doesn’t want Foggy to leave him here with them.

The hand comes back. He flinches and it snatches away just as he recognises the heartbeat attached to it. Matt reaches out, grabbing air twice before he finds it. He grips it tight, the heartbeat telling him Foggy, Foggy, Foggy in a way he can feel above the pain.

“I got you Matt. I got you.” Foggy’s heartbeat races. Upset? “It was just a bad dream.”

He shakes his head. Pain grips his body tight. He can feel the hands vice tight on his hips. He can feel the - the - “Hurts.”

Foggy’s heart skips, speeds up. “What hurts?”

Everything. _“Hurts.”_ He wants Foggy to make it stop. Foggy can always make it stop hurting.

“Oh God, you’re still in it aren’t you?” Foggy rubs his thumb over the back of Matt’s hand. “It’s just a flashback. It can’t hurt you. It’ll be over soon. You’re in the Avengers tower. You’re safe. Just you and me here. Bucky, Steve, Clint, Natasha, Sam, and Bruce too. But don’t worry about them. They’re asleep. Just focus on me. Just focus on breathing.”

Panic hits him with a blow so hard he slumps against something. Something soft. “Not safe. You should - What if they come back?”

“We’re in the Avengers tower. They aren’t here. You’re safe.”

Why doesn’t Foggy realise how much danger he’s in? He needs to leave. Run away. Matt will die before he lets them hurt Foggy. He grits his teeth. “They were right here!”

A hand touches the back of his neck. Matt jerks away, but the hand follows. And it’s OK. It’s OK. It’s Foggy. That heartbeat pulses through his body from two different points. It’s a little like being surrounded by it.

Foggy’s voice is wet. “I need you to trust me Matty. You trust me?”

It takes a little while to remember how to nod. He tries to focus on Foggy’s heartbeat. The vibration of Foggy’s voice. The pain is still there, but it’s more phantom-like. They were here seconds ago. That’s what his body tells him. But now they’re not, and Foggy is here.

Foggy’s close enough to feel the heat from his body. Strawberry shampoo and coconut sponge cake wrap around him. “You are safe. I promise. No one is going to hurt you. I won’t let them. You’re safe.”

“You…”

“I’m safe too.” Foggy’s hand grips the back of his neck. “We’re in Avengers tower. No one can get to us here. We’re both safe.”

Foggy’s heartbeat races, but it doesn’t falter. He’s telling the truth.

“Breathe with me Matty. Listen to my breathing.”

Matt focuses on the sound of Foggy’s lungs. They sound a little different to how they usually sound. He concentrates on the slow rhythm, trying to match it. It takes several long minutes before he’s able to force his lungs to slow down enough to take a full breath.

“Good job Matty.” Foggy’s heart-rate slows a little. “Do you know where you are?”

He’s in- Foggy said. He knows Foggy said. Somewhere safe. But _they_ were here, and _they_ were in the alley. The alley isn’t safe. But Foggy said they’re safe. He blinks, confused.

“Here Matt.” Foggy moves his hand, touches it to something that manages to be both smooth and rough. “What’s this you’re sitting on?”

What is it? It’s not the hard ground of the alley. “Rose shampoo. Chocolate cookies. Dog. Motor oil. Sharp soap. Strange metal. Paper. Lead pencil. Beeswax. Coffee.”

Foggy guides his fingertips lightly over the material. “What does it feel like?”

Feel. Rough. Smooth. A material he knows. “Leather. Fake leather.”

“Good to know we’re not sitting on dead things,” Foggy says. “Can you work out what it is?”

He leans into the back of it. Leans into Foggy’s hand. His shoulder complains. It takes too long to pull up the memories, use them to work out the answer. “A couch. It doesn’t smell like mine.”

“I’m pretty sure this couch could swallow yours whole.” Foggy’s hand is warm on the back of his neck. “You remember where we are yet? We were watching movies.”

“Toy Story.”

“A few after that too. We watched Tangled. You liked that one. We got Thai. You had your usual pad thai. Then Tony and Pepper left for their fundraiser. Then I guess we watched more movies and fell asleep. You remember any of that?”

It floats to him. Bits and pieces. “There was a cookie. I wanted it.”

“Of course you remember that part.” Foggy’s hand moves up to stroke his hair. “Just keep breathing. Nice and slow. You’re doing fine.”

He’s breathing, but he’s shaking too. Every now and then he shivers violently enough to make his teeth chatter. His head is still muddled, but the fear is moving to the back of his mind. The pain follows it slowly.

The room is large. Breathing all around him, and “Heartbeats?”

“Everyone fell asleep into the - I have no idea which movie we were on. These guys take their movie nights seriously.” A smile in Foggy’s voice, but not in his heart. “It’s like two in the morning. Don’t worry. They’re all asleep.”

Foggy’s heart skips just a little. Maybe a lie. Maybe he’s just not sure. Matt could check. He can hear every one of their heartbeats. But he can also hear the hum of electricity, the buzz of a fly in one of the other rooms, air moving, breathing, movement of his skeleton under his skin. His head’s too muddled to find the concentration to narrow down on one heartbeat, find the memories he needs to interpret what it tells him.

He finds an angle on the sofa that doesn’t make him whack his shoulder every time he shivers. “Foggy. What hap-hap-hap.”

“You had a flashback.” Foggy takes his hand from the back of Matt’s neck, but the one gripping his hand stays. “It’s fine. You’re safe. I’m safe. We’re both safe buddy. We’re in the Avengers tower. We’re just going to chill for a while and breathe. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Matt clutches Foggy’s hand tighter than he should. “Keep-keep?”

“Sure buddy,” Foggy says, like Matt’s not being pathetic. Like Matt’s not asking too much. “You had a flashback. It’s over. We’re in the Avengers tower. We’re both safe.” He takes a breath, then repeats the words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are different kinds of flashbacks. Basically you can have a flashback of a traumatic event through any of your senses (hearing things, seeing things, tasting things, smelling things, or feeling things that happened in the event). One type of flashback that some people don't know about is emotional flashbacks. This is where you experience an emotion you felt during the event. These can be hard to spot and can feel like a sudden mood swing. You can also have flashbacks that contain combinations of these senses / types of flashbacks.
> 
> In this chapter Matt experiences a somatic flashback. This is where you experience a sensation in your body that happened during the traumatic event. Somatic flashbacks can vary from feeling like someone is touching you, to severe pain.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for self harm and use of the word 'retard.' Matt is repeating something told to him about the appearance of a stimming behavior. He would not use the word himself. He doesn't hold any negative views about people that might suffer insult by that word. And if he noticed anyone else displaying the behavior he would think it perfectly acceptable and defend their right to engage in it. I hope the following doesn't offend anyone.

It takes over an hour to stop shaking.

It’s at least twenty minutes of silence and Foggy’s thumb slowly running over the back of his hand after that before it hits him. Foggy woke him up from a nightmare. Which means he was probably making noises or saying something. From what he can remember of the dream the two most likely words he was saying were ‘Please’ and ‘Stop.’ If that weren’t enough, he acted hysterical afterwards. Then there’s the worst thing.

The Avengers are spies and soldiers. It’s impossible they didn’t hear that.

“Hey buddy. Don’t do this to me again.” Foggy’s voice says joke. His heart says worry. “Slow breaths, remember? In and out.”

Matt takes a slow breath, drawing in the air until his entire ribcage expands. His cracked ribs complain, but not much. They’re healing, despite the extra damage from Wright’s punches. Not as well as they’d usually heal. But not bad. All the rest he’s been doing lately is good for something. Hold the breath. Let it out slowly.

He focuses down on their heartbeats. He doesn’t have to look for long. They’re awake. Every single one of them.

And he’s rocking back and forth. Slight movements. A steady rhythm like he’s been doing it for a long time. The movement stutters a few times before he can force himself to stop.

“Hey.” A hand touches the back of his neck. He flinches before the heartbeat attached to it tells him Foggy. “You can rock. I don’t know who the hell told you that you couldn’t. I’d kind of like to kick their asses. It helps, right?”

Yes. It helps. Soft textures help keep him grounded, but when he’s wound up this tight he needs something more. To twist his hands into stranger movements than usual. To punch something over and over. To bang his head. To scream. The rocking helps, sometimes better than all of those, but it makes him look retarded.

That’s why his dad said he couldn’t do it all those times after the accident. His dad would pull his hands from over his ears, hold him still so he stopped rocking, tell him over and over not to hum. ‘Because you’re clever Matty,’ he’d say calmly. ‘You’re brilliant and smart, and no one is going to see any of those things if you look like a retard.’

The nuns never used the retard word around him, though he’d hear them saying it in worried voices in different rooms. Those who knew him better said it wasn’t that. They’d heard him talk. They knew he was clever. It was bad behaviour, they said. Attention seeking. They punished it accordingly. All the way up to a few months before Stick when not even the punishments worked.

And then there was Stick. There was Stick. And there was no rocking after Stick. Not where anyone would see him. Except for once or twice around Foggy. Foggy always let down his defences like no one else had.

So he stops. Focuses on Foggy’s hand in his. Tries to make that thrumming heartbeat lull him into the same kind of calm rocking does. It’s not enough. God he’s pathetic. Why are the Avengers putting up with him? Why is Foggy putting up with him? He’s worse than useless. He’s dragging Foggy down with him.

“Sorry Foggy.” The words come out winded but whole. He wonders what it says about him that those are still the words he has least trouble with.

Foggy’s words come out tight. “You better be apologising for something stupid like always letting Mom give you the last cookie. Because you can not seriously be saying you’re sorry for having a bad dream.”

It’s not just the bad dream. It’s how much he freaked out over the bad dream. It’s how stupid he was to create the circumstances that lead to the bad dream. He shakes his head. “Sorry.”

“Matty.” Foggy sounds so tired. His heart thumps too fast. “None of this is your fault. None of it.”

Matt takes a deep breath. Shakes his head. He’s exhausted. He’s too tense. But his mind is clear enough to know that’s not true, no matter what Foggy’s heart tells him. Six on one aren’t good odds, but Daredevil’s been up against worse. And it’s not like they were ninjas or professional fighters. They were thugs. “Sorry Foggy.”

“Matt…” Skin against skin. Foggy rubbing his face with his free hand.

A couple of them couldn’t even throw a decent punch. It was stupid. It shouldn’t have happened. He shouldn’t have let it happen. He opens his mouth to say that. To explain it to Foggy, because they’re supposed to be honest with each other now. All that comes out it “Sorry.” It burns his throat.

“Stop saying that.” Foggy’s words are quiet, but there’s a horrible mix of tense muscles, a distinctive smell, body temperature change, tone of voice, that always sets Matt’s teeth on edge. Anger. Foggy is angry.

Matt needs to fix it. “Sorry.” But he doesn’t know how. “Sorry.” Each word claws its way out, burning hot. “Sorry.”

“Damn it Matt.” Foggy’s hand lets go of his. Grips his shoulder. The other grips his hoodie. Then he’s being shaken back and forth sharply enough to make his teeth rattle. “Stop saying that. Stop it!”

A wet sound. The hands let go. Matt shivers, but he doesn’t move.

There’s a hand on Foggy’s shoulder. A different body temperature. He hears the muscles in the fingers flex, but Foggy makes no pained sound. Squeezing. Not hurting.

The couch jerks as Foggy gets up. Sharp footsteps as he walks around to the back of the sofa. Skin against skin. Rubbing a hand across his face. His heart is too fast. His breathing too wet.

The body the hand that squeezed Foggy’s shoulder belongs to moves back to their place. The furthest cushion away from Matt’s on the couch. Steve.

Matt moves, pushing his back into the corner of the couch. He brings his knees to his chest. His hand finds the fleece blanket. The room is suddenly too big, filled with too many people. Because Foggy is leaving again. Matt did something wrong, and Foggy is leaving. And now there are people, and no buffer. No Foggy.

What if Foggy doesn’t come back this time? The Avengers won’t want him here without Foggy. They like Foggy. He talks to them. They laugh at his jokes. Matt can’t do that. Matt doesn’t remember how to talk or make jokes.

And Foggy will be gone.

Foggy’s footsteps walk back around the couch. The cushion beneath Matt jumps as he sits back down. A sigh. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’d apologise, but it seems kind of hypocritical right now. Forgive me anyway?”

Matt nods quickly. Of course he forgives Foggy.

Foggy swallows heavily. “Where are we on that scale of yours?”

Matt thinks, raises three fingers.

“You sure? You’re shaking again.”

He should be honest with Foggy. He doesn’t want to give him another reason to leave. Frowning, he raises another finger.

“But not a five?”

Matt shakes his head. Not a five. Every inch of him is raw, tired, tense, but he’s still in control. There’s no tightness in his chest or shortness of breath that tells him he’s approaching a panic attack.

“You want to stay here, or go upstairs?”

He doesn’t want to be here with the awake heartbeats that tell him they’re listening, watching. It makes him feel like a bug under a microscope. Like when he found out that the worst night of his life had been watched by thousands. And his nerves are drawn tighter than a piano wire. He’s not going to sleep. Staying here will only disturb them.

But what does Foggy want? Is he being selfish dragging him away when he was comfortable and sleeping?

“Matty, please just tell me what you want. Are you going to sleep here?”

He shakes his head. The shivers are dying down, but he’s not going to be able to sleep.

“You want your bed?”

He nods his head before he can stop himself. He wants his bed. The silk sheets comforting against his skin. The heavy blanket providing a weight that muffles the world around him.

“Then upstairs we go,” Foggy says, sounding like he doesn’t mind.

***

That itching tension coils under his skin.

There’s no comfortable position to sleep, and for once it’s not because of his ribs and shoulder. He piles up the pillows, leans against them in a way that doesn’t put too much weight on his right shoulder blade. Tucks the blanket around him to cushion his lower wounds. It’s not like they hurt. Not compared to how they did. But with the flashback fresh in his head he wants to feel them as little as possible.

That choking tension makes him feel like he’s going to vibrate out of his body. He wants to hit. He wants to scream. He can’t. If he makes too much noise Jarvis will hear. He’ll wake Foggy.

Shifting out of his carefully constructed nest, he tries to rock. It doesn’t work. He can’t find the rhythm. He can’t find an angle that doesn’t hurt. His father’s voice tells him lovingly that he’s too clever to act retarded. His nine year old self not really knowing what that meant, only that it was bad, that no one would let him go to college like his dad wanted if he rocked.

Raising his forearm to his mouth, he bites down hard.

It’s not the first time he’s done this. Not the second, third or hundredth either. Biting is a good way to release tension. He’d learnt that as a teenager, Stick gone, and little opportunity to exercise. They hadn’t even let him run in the playground, even when he’d explained he knew it off by heart and wasn’t going to hurt himself.

The pain is blunt. More pressure than anything else. It takes a lot to draw blood when you’re biting yourself. He pulls a little with his teeth, trying to make the pain deeper. It needs to last.

He lets go only when his lungs scream for oxygen. Flexes his arm to inspect the wound. The ache is a welcome distraction, but it’s not enough. His body’s still too tense. His mind still races.

Bringing a knee up to brace his arm against, he tries again. This time he manages a better angle. Not as precise as when he has both hands, but it’ll do. His heart beats an angry rhythm in his chest. A scream sits ready in the back of his throat. He needs it to stop.

It takes a lot more bites before the tension starts to ease from his shoulders. Most are in the same place. One bite over one bite over another bite, until he can smell blood. Impressive. He’s only managed to draw blood once or twice before. It’ll be a heavy bruise. One that he can press on for a few days when he starts to feel out of control.

One more bite to take the pain just outside the region of comfortable. He’ll need it in an hour when the pain fades. Otherwise it won’t be enough, and he’ll start to be tempted to do another bite, then another a couple hours later when that fades. That never ends well. Best to hurt himself a little more than he wants right now, so he won’t think about biting for at least a few days.

He shrugs on his hoodie, settles into his blanket nest. The angry clawing feeling is gone from his chest. He can rest.

***

“Come on Matty. Get up.”

He doesn’t want to.

A hand runs through his hair. “Is this because of the flashback, or is this because of yesterday? I thought it would be the easiest time for you to meet the others. Was it too much? If it was too much you need to tell me Matt. I can’t fix anything if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Matt doesn’t know what’s wrong. Just that he’s tired again.Why is he always so tired?

“Buddy, can you use the scale?” The mattress shifts. Foggy settling on its edge.

He’s starting to hate that stupid scale. Analysing his own feelings isn’t something he’s used to. But he’ll do it for Foggy. He raises three fingers.

The hand continues running through his hair. It’s soothing. “You’ve got some choices to make.”

Matt shakes his head. Something stubborn floods into his veins. No choices. He doesn’t want any choices.

Foggy’s hand waits until he stops moving, then strokes his hair again. “Just listen Matty. OK buddy? Can you do that?”

He stays still, lets the hand run through his hair. Foggy’s heartbeat thrums through his skull.

“I need to talk to Pepper about your case. You can decide whether you come or not. Claire’s also coming over later. Now Matty, either I go to meet Pepper and someone stays up here with you while I’m gone, or you come meet her with me, or she comes up here. Your choice.”

Having a choice should be a good thing. Instead it feels like a punishment.

“You want Pepper in the apartment?”

He shakes his head.

“Is there someone you don’t mind staying in the apartment with you?”

Another shake. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. Bucky and Steve have already been here. But the thought of anyone coming into his and Foggy’s space sets his teeth on edge. Not to mention that without Foggy as a buffer he’d be forced to interact.

“You want to come with me then? We can set up on the communal floor. You liked it down there, right?”

The sofa was nice. It was safe. But he’ll have to get up. He’ll have to be around other people. Staying in bed seems so much easier.

“We could take your duvet?” Foggy says. There’s anxiety in his voice, though it sounds like he’s trying to hide it. “You can be burrito Matt. No one will bother you. Except me. I’ll probably bother you. But only when I really need to, promise.”

That could be OK. But he’d still have to move.

“Come on bud.” The mattress shifts as Foggy stands up. “You have the next thirty minutes to get up and in the shower. If not, I’ll have to leave and see if Bucky can come stay with you.”

Get up, or spend an indeterminate amount of time without Foggy. Matt gets up.

***

The communal floor is empty of heartbeats.

Matt wonders if Foggy planned it that way. He had heard him talking while he was in the shower. Maybe to Jarvis. Maybe to someone on a phone. It seemed like too much effort to focus in and check.

“Sofa’s to your left Matty,” Foggy says once he’s standing right by it.

Matt feels for it, then carefully walks around and deposits himself on his cushion. The corner of the sofa is a reassuring wall against his back. A barrier he can hear around, but no one else can see over.

The heavy duvet lands on his lap. The sofa is wide, but half the duvet still falls off over the edge. He gathers it up, trying to plan how to arrange it to let him sit faintly upright, while still being able to burrow under it.

His ribs ache more fiercely than they did yesterday. His shoulder reminds him of all the times he lay flat on it the past few days.

Foggy’s feet move to the kitchen, come back. The slosh of water as something is set down on the coffee table. “Bottle of water. Ipod next to it. That blanket you liked is hanging above you. Anything else you want? Hungry?”

Matt shakes his head. His hand finds the fleece blanket. It works nicely to prop him up against the corner of the couch. He leaves a corner hanging loose so he can fiddle with it.

“We’ll be talking about you.” Fabric against wood as Foggy sits on the edge of the coffee table. “Mainly about the publicity side of things. Did you want to join in?”

Another shake. Matt folds the duvet in two so he can wrap it around him.

“There might be some decisions to make. Do you want us to ask-”

Matt clutches the duvet tight. Shakes his head. No. No choices.

Foggy’s heart speeds up. Wet in his breathing. “OK bud. OK. We’ll start out here I think. But if someone needs the communal lounge we’ll move to another room. The one across from the bathroom. Can you hear us in there?”

Yes. If he concentrates. He nods.

“That’s good.” A pause. “You want to rest?”

Matt nods. Tired. But more than that. It’s a heavy feeling of not wanting to be here anymore. Of wanting to stop the world and get off. Of just wanting to not exist for a while.

“Rest then buddy. No one’s going to bother you. They’re under strict instructions to not talk to you if you’ve got the blanket over your head.”

Matt wraps himself in the blanket, making sure it covers his head. The constant movement of air quietens. The world around him muffles just enough to take the edge off. Leaning to his left to take the weight off his shoulder, he presses his bruised arm against the blanket beneath him. He’d had enough presence of mind to make sure Foggy didn’t see it when he wrapped his arm for the shower. The ache reminds him he’s in control.

***

The smell of pancakes brings him out of it.

He slept. He thinks he slept. All he knows is he feels a little more alive. His ear-buds are lying next to his head. Not in his ears since sometimes the feel of rubber and plastic can be too much. The audio book of the fourth ‘how to train your dragon’ is still playing, but he thinks he missed a lot. He’s not sure what’s happening.

Fumbling, Matt finds the ipod and presses pause.

Foggy’s heartbeat isn’t in the room.

Swallowing panic, Matt reminds himself he knew this could happen. He reaches his senses out toward the room Foggy said they might move to. Sure enough there it is, along with another heartbeat. Only, the other heartbeat isn’t Pepper. Pepper’s heartbeat is still in the room with him, along with Steve’s. The heartbeat in the room with Foggy is Claire.

Foggy is crying? No. He doesn’t think so. But his voice is wet. His heart is too fast. Upset. Very upset.

“My Mom calls every day. Most of the time she ends up crying. And I have to be the strong one. To tell her I have everything under control. Only I don’t. I really don’t. But if she knew how bad things are, she’d be even more upset. Matt’s her favourite. Has been since I dragged him home that first time.” A wet laugh. “She keeps asking to talk to him. And I’m running out of excuses why she can’t.”

Claire’s pulse is fast, but her voice isn’t wet. “You could tell her the truth?”

“I can’t. I can’t do that to her.” Sound of hair moving? Foggy shaking his head? “This broke her enough as it is. And I think she’s holding onto the hope that a lot of the things the media is spouting is hype. If she knows how he’s acting, I don’t know what she’d do.”

Matt pushes himself out of the blanket nest. The bottle is resting by his knees. He reaches for it, wincing as all his muscles complain at the action. Snagging it with the tips of his fingers, he downs half of it.

“Hey.” Pepper’s voice is soft. She sits on the other sofa, something buzzing with electricity in her hands. “Steve’s making pancakes. Did you want some?”

Foggy’s voice keeps talking in the other room. Something about his sister Candace. His voice is still too wet. Matt nods.

Pepper must make some kind of gesture, because Steve’s voice speaks up from the kitchen area. “You want to eat them on the couch, or at the table?”

Matt struggles to his feet. All his muscles seem to have seized in place. It takes a while to work them loose. It’s hard to tell which parts of him complain the loudest, but he thinks the ribs and shoulder might win by a short margin. He doesn’t bother with the cane. The table is only a short distance away. He remembers where it is.

“I’m making a lot,” Steve says. The clink of ceramic as he moves something about on the table. “But I’d recommend you grab however many you want fast. No matter how much I make it never seems to be enough in this house. And if I can tempt Bucky to quit sulking -” his heartbeat races. “Matt. What’s that on your arm?”

Matt lowers his hand from where he’s rubbing his eyes. His ears pick up nothing out of the ordinary. Too much body heat on his forearm. He tenses the muscles experimentally. Oh. Cold rushes down his spine. Heat rushes to his face. The bites.

“Pepper, can you take over the pan?” Worry in Steve’s voice.

Pepper’s high heels click over to the kitchen area. Her heart is too fast, but the rest of her body is calm.

Matt considers running for the elevator. Could he somehow without words persuade Jarvis to take him to his room? But then what would happen? Foggy would find out that he freaked out again. He’s already worried enough as it is.

“Matt. Can I see?” Steve’s feet stay where they are by the table.

Matt turns his face toward the floor. He hides his arm behind his back.

“Matt,” Steve says, voice calm. “I’m going to have to tell Foggy.”

His heart beats in his throat. He shakes his head, turns to face Steve’s voice, tries to convey why he can’t do that. Foggy’s upset. He’s not going to understand that it’s just a few bites. No big deal. He’s going to get more upset, because of Matt.

“Look. I’m not going to lie to Foggy about this. He won’t like it if you lie about it either. So how about we put some ice on it so it doesn’t seem so bad, then I’ll help you tell him?”

Matt’s hand finds the pocket of his hoodie, grips the material there.

“What I saw was pretty swollen.” Steve sounds calm, in control. Matt can see why he’s a good leader. “You want Foggy to see it looking like that?”

Matt bites his lip. Shakes his head.

“Come sit at the table.” Steve’s footsteps move to the kitchen area. “I’ll get a couple of ice packs.”

Matt finds the back of a chair with his hand, sits down. He can’t help but feel he’s been tricked somehow, but Steve just makes it sound so reasonable. He’d be a good lawyer.

The scrape of the chair on his left. Steve sits down, keeping a fair distance between them. “This too close?”

Matt shakes his head. He’s shivering. He clenches his hand into a fist to stop it.

“Can I see what I’m working with?” Steve asks quietly.

Matt places his arm in front of Steve, not turning his head to face it. This is stupid. It’s only a few bite marks. If he had his words, he could explain that. It’s not like he’s cutting himself. Biting helps. It rarely leaves more than bruises. He can control the amount of damage he leaves more than when he hits himself. It’s probably the safest way he’s ever hurt himself.

But it is hurting himself, and he knows how people can feel about that.

Steve shucks up his sleeve, not touching his skin. His heart-rate climbs again. How bad does it look? Matt’s never thought to consider that. He’s always been pretty good at hiding wounds, long before he became Daredevil.

“Did you?” A wet sound as Steve swallows. “Did you clean it?”

Matt nods.

“You cut the skin.” There’s a note of something pained in Steve’s voice. “I’m going to put some cream on. Then I’ll ice it up. OK?”

Another nod.

The click of Pepper’s heels. The sound of plastic against wood. The smell of antiseptic as Steve clicks open the box.

The cream stings. Matt tries not to twitch.

“Did you want to show Foggy yourself?” Steve asks softly as he packs away the equipment. “Or do you want me to go tell him, and he can come see once he’s calmed down?”

Matt shifts in the chair, moves his arm enough to point to Steve. It’s cowardly, but he’ll do anything to avoid Foggy being mad at him again.

“OK,” Steve says. “Moving your sleeve down now. Ready for the ice packs?”

A nod.

The ice packs are the gel kind. They smell more or less the same as the ones he bought for his own freezer. The cold is soothing. He hadn’t noticed how hot his arm had gotten until now.

“Sit tight.” The scrape of the chair as Steve gets to his feet. He moves out of looming range quick enough for Matt not to flinch. “I’ll try to buy as much time as I can for those to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stims are commonly associated with autism, but are present to some degree in all types of people. Many people I've come across with PTSD or anxiety disorders develop increased stimming habits of various kinds. 
> 
> Research has suggested stimming regulates sensory input (so would be essential for someone like Matt who takes in so much more sensory information than a human brain is designed to cope with), and that it decreases anxiety. Hence why Matt is finding it more difficult to keep his stims discreet now that his body is flooded with anxiety.
> 
> Unlike what some people may think, people can self harm for more reasons than to get attention. Here are some reasons for self harm: https://www.rethink.org/diagnosis-treatment/symptoms/self-harm/causes
> 
> Matt self harms to deal with strong emotions. Unfortunately self harm is also a very effective grounding technique for flashbacks, so you'll sometimes see him use it for that too. There are healthier methods.


	12. Chapter 12

“I was supposed to be watching him,” Foggy says, like Matt’s so useless that he can’t take care of himself.

It’s not the reaction Matt expected. It stings deeper than any anger. Foggy knows how Matt feels about being treated like glass. Yet there Foggy is, acting like it’s his own fault that Matt hurt himself, because Matt is incapable of looking after himself.

And the worst part is, a piece of Matt suspects Foggy might be right.

Jarvis’s voice sounds above him, taking his attention away from the room where Steve breaks the news. “Sir, Doctor Banner, and Agents Romanov and Barton are requesting access to the communal floor.”

“Come seeking pancakes I’ll bet,” Pepper says, sounding amused. “It’s your decision Matt. Do we let them in, or not?”

More choices. But at least she makes this one sound like a joke. Like she’s in on it too if he chooses to turn them away. He gives a hesitant nod.

“Jarvis.” The tap of heels and clink of ceramic as she sets a pile of plates on the table. One she places in front of him. “Tell them Matt’s injured his arm. They’re allowed in if they don’t mention it.”

“Pancakes!” Clint calls as soon as the elevator doors open.

Movement as Pepper places a pile of pancakes on his plate. “Here. Before the rest get demolished.”

He opens his mouth to ask for some for Foggy too. The word won’t come out. He frowns. That’s not fair. Foggy is his word. He’s always supposed to be able to say it.

The Avengers settle around the table, but the chairs either side of Matt stay empty. They jostle each other, calling out for various toppings. Scraping and leaning as things get passed around. Pepper moves back to the pan.

“Thought Captain America was making pancakes?” Clint says around a mouthful of pancake and what smells like chocolate syrup.

“I am.” Heavy footsteps as Steve walks back into the room.

Other footsteps behind him. Foggy and Claire. Matt tenses.

The scrape of the chair on his left side. Foggy drops his weight onto the seat. A hand with Foggy’s heartbeat touches his. Matt hunches his shoulders, readying himself for the moment when Foggy grabs his hand, pulls his sleeve up to inspect what’s underneath in front of the whole table.

Instead Foggy’s hand squeezes his lightly. “Not mad Matty. I promise. We’ll talk about it later, OK?”

Matt gives a stuttered nod.

Claire sits on his other side. “Now, I for one am dying to find out what Captain America’s pancakes taste like.”

***

There’s something wrong with Foggy.

The picture comes together in bits and pieces. The heat of his skin. A smell on his breath as he leans over to cut up Matt’s pancakes “I’m not mother henning Matt. OK. Maybe I am a little. But how else are you going to eat this with one hand?” A strange wet sound to his breath that Matt gradually comes to realise isn’t upset.

Matt spears a piece of pancake with his fork, chews it slowly. Every piece he eats makes Foggy’s breathing lighter, happier. And they’re not that difficult to eat. Not as easy as oatmeal or soup, but the textures are uniform, the ingredients are simple.

He tilts his head a little, listening to Foggy’s lungs. They sound too wet. Clogged with something that shouldn’t be there. He definitely has a virus of some kind. Of course a lot of people get viruses. They also get mild fevers and lung junk. That doesn’t mean it’s going to develop into anything serious, or even develop into anything the person notices before their body kicks it.

Matt’s trying to work out whether Foggy’s fever is high enough to be uncomfortable without touching him, when the atmosphere in the room changes.

The elevator doors whoosh open. A threat walks out.

Tense muscles. A distinctive smell. Body temperature too warm. Breathing erratic. Heart-rate too fast. It mixes together to make that horrible cloud of anger that always chokes in Matt’s throat, and grates against every single one of his nerves. It’s the same cloud the thugs wore when they were - when they were-

The threat walks toward the table. Towards Foggy.

Matt’s on his feet in an instant, placing himself between the threat and Foggy. He forces his movements smooth, despite the pain. Can’t let the threat know he’s injured. Hand by his side, ready for the attack. His hackles raise, muscles tense.

The threat’s footsteps stop. All the talking and clinking of plates around him stops.

“Barnes.” Natasha’s voice. Tense. “Leave now.”

That cloud of anger drains from the room all at once. It’s there one second, then the next it’s like someone’s sucked it all away. Instead there’s Bucky’s heartbeat, racing but not angry. A wet choked sound in his throat that wasn’t there before.

Matt reels from the sudden change. He blinks, scanning the room. There was a threat. Someone was angry. And now there’s not. But Bucky is upset.

What happened to the threat? Why is Bucky upset?

Bucky’s uneven footsteps spin around, march for the elevator at a fast pace. The elevator doors slam close, swallowing Bucky’s footsteps and his upset breathing.

“Hey Matty?” Foggy’s voice. Nervous. He smells of fear.

Fear because of the threat? But where did it go?

“Matty, can you give me the knife?”

Knife? There’s metal clenched in his hand. He has to force his finger to let it go. It clatters on the floor.

What happened? When did he pick up the knife?

“Come on Matty. Sit down.” Foggy’s hand on his back, guiding him towards his chair.

He sits, feeling lost.

There was a threat. Wasn’t there?

Foggy’s hand rubs circles into his back. It helps. “It’s OK buddy. Eat your food. We’ll figure this out.”

***

They don’t figure it out.

Foggy explains that Bucky walked off the elevator, and Matt got up and looked like he was about to attack him. He asks Matt why. Matt doesn’t have an answer, not even if he still had words.

There was a threat. Then there was just Bucky. And Matt doesn’t understand.

Bruce leaves first to go after Bucky. Steve sounds like he wants to go too, but waits until the dishes are all done and Matt is hidden in his blanket nest again. The others trickle out in between. Clint keeps talking about some game show he, Steve, and Bucky are going to be on. Steve keeps replying with half hearted comments about looking forward to it that all scream lie.

Soon there’s only him, Foggy, and Claire in the room.

Fabric against wood. Claire settles on the coffee table next to the couch. Her voice is soft. “I know you don’t want to talk to me right now. But I need to ask you a few things. Just a few things, then I’ll leave. Will you let me do that?”

The heavy blanket muffles some of the smaller noises. The constant motion of air drifting around a room. A shift in the wind outside the thick windows by the kitchen area. The flap of an insect’s wings. It’s nice to shut some of it out for once.

"Your seven days of antibiotics are over. I need to know whether you need any more."

There's a tight ball of something upset in his stomach. It's not quite the tense clawing in his chest he gets when he has to do something to make it stop, but it's getting there.

"Come on Matt," she says, almost in her usual annoyed tone. "Are you going to let me talk to a blanket all day like some kind of idiot?"

He shuffles up on the couch, letting the duvet fall from his head.

"There's those beautiful eyes." There's a smile in her voice, a hint of teasing. "Now that I have a face to talk to, how's that infection doing? It needs to be all gone before you stop the pills. And I mean every last trace. The world will not thank you if you use your body as some kind of antibiotic fight club to breed a race of super bacteria. So, need any more pills?"

He gives a small nod.

"Is it almost gone at least?"

Another nod. Almost gone. Just a hint of that sickly putrid smell left.

"OK. I'll drop off another seven days this afternoon. Make sure you use it all. Even if the infection's gone before that. You don't want to play nice with these things." Fabric shifting. Leaning forward. "Now, can I have a look at that arm?"

Matt huffs, but lays it on the duvet.

Her movements are brisk as she folds up the sleeve of his hoodie. At least she doesn't grab. Her heartbeat spikes, but returns to a steady rhythm soon enough. "Have you bitten yourself before?"

Foggy’s heart doesn't return to a steady rhythm. It stays racing.

Matt shakes his head.

Foggy’s footsteps march away from him, in the direction of the bathroom. Leaving. But not really leaving. Right?

Claire's muscles tense. The sound of hair as she shakes her head. "I don't believe you."

Matt snatches his arm away more forcefully than he should. Tucks it under the duvet, out of her sight. His jaw clenches.

Claire's heartbeat keeps its steady pace. "I've been thinking. Foggy mentioned you've had problems giving a statement about the attack. I might have a solution."

Foggy’s heartbeat stays in the bathroom. He's just standing there.

"You got on with Olivia, right?"

He gives a half shrug. She was nice. The exam hadn't been nice, but she had.

"Well, since she's a sexual assault nurse examiner she's qualified to take your statement. In fact, if we'd known back at the hospital, that's what she would've done before any police got involved. And like I said, she's really good at what she does. She's willing to come to the tower every day for however long it takes to piece together a statement. She'll talk with you for a few minutes to an hour. However long you can stand being around someone that intolerably nice. At the end she'll send it to the police. Does that sound like something you could do?"

Talking to Detective Kelly or Olivia. There's no contest. He nods.

"She can start tomorrow morning if that all right with you? Then she can switch to afternoons once you start going to court."

Court. Grand jury starts on Tuesday. Two days away. Usually it wouldn't happen so soon. Prosecution likes to take all the time they can get to make their case solid. But if they've been working on this as long as he thinks they have, they've had their ducks lined in a row long before his arrest.

"Matt?" Claire asks, cautious. "Is it all right if she starts tomorrow morning?"

His hand finds the fleece blanket under the duvet. A nod.

"Good. I'll tell her. She'll be pleased to see you again. Trust me. I know. She's pleased to see everyone. Even the guy who comes in every month or so infested with lice." Her warmth moves closer. "The stitches on your head and cheek dissolved fine. The one on your cheek won't scar. Not sure you'll get away with that with the head wound. But don't worry. If it scars it'll be a small one, and your hair will cover most of it. You'll still be pretty.

"Only other thing you need to worry about is physical therapy. You need to start light exercises for your shoulder. And I mean light. Shoulder blade fractures are picky. Do too much of the wrong thing and it's not going to heal. Really it's best for the bone if you keep it immobile until it completely heals, but then you've got to weigh that against how quickly your shoulder loses strength if it doesn't get to exercise. So you need to get hold of a physical therapist in the next couple days. They'll walk you through exactly what you can and can't do. And you must listen to them. The last thing you need is nerve damage or loss of motion because you pushed too far too fast. Got it?"

He nods, trying not to think about yet another stranger forcing themselves into his life over this whole thing.

"That's all my questions." Skin against fabric. She brushes dust he can't smell off her legs, gets to her feet. She moves out of looming range, around the back of the sofa. Her footsteps stutter a little before they stop. Hesitating. "Hey Matt. I just wanted to say I'm sorry about how I acted at the hospital. I know how much you hate going to hospitals. I felt guilty about not being able to find another solution. So I took it out on you. That was wrong. My training. It teaches me how to spot symptoms of shock. Afterwards I suspected something more had happened this time. But back when it might've helped, I didn't. You shouldn't have had to cope with that alone for as long as you did. So, I'm sorry."

Her footsteps make their way to the elevator. A whoosh of the doors, then she's gone.

***

Matt still hasn’t moved by the time Foggy’s heartbeat comes back from the bathroom.

Foggy’s heart beats upset. His breath hitches several times like he’s gathering the courage to say something. Fabric against wood as he settles on the coffee table. His voice is quiet. “Matty. Your arm. Have you ever done anything like that before?”

Matt shakes his head.

“Please don’t lie to me Matty.” The impact of skin against skin. Foggy lets his head fall into his hands. “You know I hate it when you lie to me.”

Matt keeps his face turned away from Foggy. Tension thrums through him, building. “It’s no big - it’s no big deal.”

“Matt. I need to know whether you’re going to hurt yourself again.”

Matt clenches his jaw shut. How is he supposed to answer that?

Foggy takes a deep breath. Shifting as he straightens up. “Can you tell me why you did it?’

“It helps,” Matt says finally. He flexes his arm, wishing the dull pain there helped more right now. The scream rises in the back of his throat again. This isn’t right. He shouldn’t be feeling this tense so soon. The pain should tide him over longer than this. “I’m careful. You don’t need to worry. I don’t bite my hands or wrists. Not hard anyway. Too many things there I could damage. I don’t bite my legs. The pain receptors there aren’t as sensitive, so I’d end up biting too deep. I only use my forearm. I can control the angle so it’s safe. It’s sensitive enough that I usually end up with only a couple bruises. It’s not anything serious. It’s not like I’m cutting myself.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is buddy.” Foggy’s heart-rate spikes. “Have you ever cut yourself?”

“No.” It’s not quite a lie. Sure, he might’ve dabbled in it when looking for ways to reduce his tension. But he stopped when he realised what a dangerous habit it could become. He hasn’t done that for years.

“Are you lying to me?”

“No.”

A sigh. “How often do you bite yourself?”

“Not often. I can go months without doing that.”

“OK,” Foggy says in a voice that’s trying to sound calm, and with a heart that says he’s anything but calm. “What kind of things trigger it?”

“When I’m stressed.” Why is Foggy acting like this is such a big deal? “When I don’t have anything to focus on, or I’m not making headway. When I don’t have other outlets like exercise or patrolling.”

“We can work with that.” Foggy’s heart-rate slows a little. Pleased to have a plan maybe? “Between your feet, that shoulder, and those ribs there’s not much exercise you can do, but we’ll find something.”

Matt leans the side of his head against the back of the sofa. That tension claws at his chest. He wants to hit, to scream. The video. Breaking the plates. The flashback in front of the whole team. His arm. Whatever that thing was with Bucky. He’s falling apart, and everyone is here to see it. The mind controls the body. So what do you do when your mind spins out of control?

“What number are we on buddy?”

Four. “Three,” he says between gritted teeth.

“OK. Change of topic.” A cheery tone in Foggy’s voice. It wavers too much. Fake. “Pepper is a PR wizard. Well, I think she outsources some of it now she has a company to run, but she’s still a wizard. The press is clambering for insights into what’s going on, and they’re getting things wrong of course. Bunch of idiots. The public is getting a little pissed that they haven’t heard anything. You’ve got so many requests for interviews, and some people are getting snippy that you haven’t responded. Which, rude of them. You’ve got way more important things going on. Even your new fans keep demanding updates and for you to address whatever fresh rumour is floating about. So Pepper says we need to put together a written statement. Something short that reminds them why you aren’t appearing on Ellen anytime soon.

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to do any of the work. I just want to keep you in the loop, and make sure you have a say. Pepper thinks it’s important we mention you’re attending therapy. That’ll help appease those who think you’re some kind of dangerous criminal, ‘cause hey, why not deal with those anger management issues among everything else. And it’ll remind those on savedaredevil squad why you don’t have time to be an epic spokesperson right now. Are you alright with that?”

What does it matter? He shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t care Foggy.”

Skin against fabric. Foggy rubs his hands over his pants legs. A hint of nervous sweat. “Pepper thought it might help down the line to mention your preliminary diagnoses of PTSD and selective mutism. Because surely you’ve noticed there’s something a little off about this investigation. Those extra charges they tried to bring against you. The lack of investigation into anyone in that video but you. The way Wright keeps popping up even after I filed that complaint against him. And I know I didn’t tell you this, but I asked Fiona to send a letter to try and get you excused from attending court. You know, when you were having one of your drifting away days. They refused. Apparently because it’s stress. That’s how they phrased it. Stress. So there’s no guarantee that it would be fixed within a reasonable time frame. We’ve come across bullshit like this before, but this my friend seems unusually shitty.

“So Pepper’s idea is that if we release that information to the media, it’s out there. If they keep refusing to give you accommodations, we can point to it and say ‘hey asshole, you’re being an asshole.’ And they won’t be able to say we got your therapist to make up the diagnosis to make them look bad. If they keep being assholes, we tell twitter and sick thousands of outraged citizens of the Internet on their asses.”

Matt blinks. How many of those outraged citizens of the Internet were the same people who saw the video? “Your Mom will find out I can’t speak.”

Foggy’s muscles stiffen before relaxing. “I’ll tell her before it comes out. Break it to her softly.”

“Tell her I’m sorry.”

“Bud. That’ll break her heart more. I’ll tell her you’re hanging in there.”

Matt’s not so sure that’s true.

“Matty. We could use the extra ammo releasing those diagnoses gets us, but it’s personal information. It’s your personal information. We won’t release it unless you want us to.”

The back of the leather sofa is cool under his cheek. “I don’t care.”

“I need you to think about this Matt. Right now they aren’t sure how you’re taking it. Heck, a few people seem to think you should be back-flipping onto their favourite talk show, making motivational speeches for people with disabilities, or victims of…” Foggy clears his throat with a suspiciously wet sound. “You let them know you’re not doing good, you can’t take that back. It’s the kind of thing they’re going to remember for years. And if you decide to pick up the mask again, that could make things difficult.”

The world already knows enough about him to make picking up the mask difficult. Who’s ever going to take him seriously again? “Do whatever you think is best Foggy.”

“Matt-”

“I don’t care Foggy!” His body’s too hot. His muscles too tense. Why doesn’t Foggy understand that he doesn’t want to make any choices right now? “I don’t fucking care!”

A pause. “What number are we on?”

He slams his fist into the sofa cushion. It sends a jolt of pain through his opposite shoulder blade. “Shut up about the stupid scale!”

“I’m guessing a five then.” Foggy’s voice is calm. His heart races. “Come here Matt.”

He can feel the heat of Foggy’s arms drift towards him, but they don’t touch. “No!”

“I don’t know why, but touch helps. Come here.”

His body leans towards the smell of Foggy, leans away from him. He shakes his head. “No!”

“Matty.”

He bangs his head hard against the back of the sofa. It barely even hurts his shoulder it’s so cushioned. The tension claws at him, burning him alive from the inside out. His bruised arm presses against his ribs. It’s not enough. “This is why I need. I need. I don’t w-want to feel like this Foggy. It’s too much.”

“It’s OK Matt. I’m right here. Just give me your hand.”

His hand twitches twice before reaching out.

Foggy’s hand wraps loosely around his. It’s soft compared to Matt’s. His heartbeat thrums in that familiar pattern, vibrating down Matt’s arm. It pulls, tugging Matt towards the edge of the couch.

Matt resists for a whole ten seconds, before Foggy’s other hand finds its way to his back, rubbing circles there in that firm comforting way only he seems able to do. Foggy’s body settles on the couch cushion beside him, and it seems more effort than it’s worth not to slump sideways onto solid warmth.

Foggy’s arms encircle him carefully. One hand keeps rubbing circles on his back. The other grips the back of his neck. Warmth against his forehead as Foggy leans his cheek against it. The smell of Foggy surrounds him. Strawberry shampoo, pancakes, and just Foggy. That heartbeat beats through him from every angle.

Matt’s muscles stay coiled tight. That tension claws at his chest. Foggy rocks him from side to side. Small movements. The kind you’d probably get away with as not looking weird if Matt weren’t pressed so close, and the hug was one of those two second deals.

He coils his muscles tighter, trying to prove he doesn’t need this. For several seconds he convinces himself. Then he realises the urge to hit something is gone. The clawing sensation is still there, but the need to do something about has vanished.

Several minutes of gentle movement, hands rubbing circles into his skin, Foggy’s heartbeat, his muscles begin to loosen. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The next breath slides in and out easily. It tastes of Foggy. It tastes of safety.

Who is he kidding? He needs this.

Heart racing, he gives into the instinct to shift a little closer, burrowing his forehead into Foggy’s neck. His hand finds Foggy’s shirt and grips. Foggy doesn’t seem to mind.

Little by little the clawing eases from his chest.

***

He’s asking too much. He knows that.

But Foggy’s neck is warm against his forehead. A little too warm, but not enough to count as sick. Matt will stay vigilant in case it gets worse. His heart thumps hard against Matt’s chin. A steady rhythm. The handful of cotton shirt in his hand is as soothing as the fleece blanket, even though he knows it shouldn’t be. Everything smells of Foggy, and if he concentrates his senses on it, he can pretend nothing else exists.

“So,” Foggy says, and his voice vibrates through Matt’s head. “Apparently your anger management problem can be addressed by punching copious amounts of bad guys, or by awesome Nelson hugs. So next time I vote we go straight for the hug.”

Matt hums against Foggy’s neck. He’s feeling loose limbed. Not quite relaxed. There’s too much in his head for that. But it’s the closest he’s been in a while.

Foggy’s arm tightens around him. They’ve stopped rocking. Foggy laying back against the side of the sofa. Matt squeezed between him and the back of the sofa, head against Foggy’s chest. He thinks he should be feeling some awkwardness over their position, but it’s comfy, and it’s safe, and there’s no one else in the whole world but Foggy. No one else exists. No Avengers, no Fiona, no Olivia to talk about what happened that night, no one to watch the video, no video because there’s no _them._ Nothing exists but this tiny point in space and time and Foggy, and maybe if he clutches the shirt in his hand tight enough, nothing else will ever exist.

“When are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

And just like that the world snaps back into focus. He fights not to burrow further into Foggy to try and shut it out. He opens his mouth instead to say some non answer. A sarcastic ‘what do you think?’ that will stop further questions. Instead the words surprise him. “They saw Foggy. They saw me lose it. And they keep seeing, because I keep losing it. And I don’t - know - why.”

Foggy’s hand moves, starts rubbing circles into his back again. “The Avengers?”

Matt nods, wondering if Foggy’s back rubs are some form of truth serum. “And you.”

“Me. I’m in this for the long haul. Better or worse, remember? Maverick and Goose. Except without the death thing.” Foggy’s other hand reaches over to rest on the back of his head. “The Avengers I think have cooler heads over this whole thing than I do. They’re spies, and assassins, and enormous green rage monsters. They all know what it’s like to have issues. And you Matt have a few more issues than you usually do, but you’re getting help for once. You’re going to be OK.”

It would be reassuring if he couldn’t hear Foggy’s heart say lie. It’s a small one. A slight discrepancy in the beat. At least it’s only at the end of the statement. Foggy doesn’t believe Matt’s going to be OK, but he is planning on sticking around for the long haul. Matt’s not sure if that’s better or worse.

“I gotta ask Matty.” Fluttering in Foggy’s heart. Nerves. “The statement. Do you really not mind what we put in it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Matt says with none of the venom of before. “Whatever you say won’t be worse than what people are already saying about me.” He thinks of Wright and his voice turns bitter. “It might even be better. If they know about - about the PTSD, they can’t say-” The words choke off.

Foggy’s muscles tense beside him. “Can’t say what?”

Matt tries to swallow the lump in his throat. It doesn’t work.

Foggy pulls back far enough to be able to look at him. “Someone said something to you. Who was it? Was it Wright?”

“It doesn’t - it doesn’t matter.”

“Course it does. Christ Matty. You’re the victim here. He’s the police officer. He’s supposed to know better.”

Victim. The word stabs through his heart, cold and brittle. He pulls away from Foggy as far as the couch lets him. “It’s just words.”

“That we need to report.” Slapping of fabric as Foggy checks his pockets. Skin against plastic as he finds his phone. “Wait a minute. I’m going to record this.”

Matt shakes his head.

“Matt. Brett needs to know what he said to file a complaint. You don’t want a guy like Wright going around saying that kind of thing to other victims, right?”

That word again. Victim. It stings. But he doesn’t want someone else to have to deal with that. To them it won’t be just words. It’ll hurt them.

“We record this now, I can send it to Brett. He can file the reports. It’ll save us figuring out how to do it later when we’re busy with court. Come on Matty. Just try.”

Try. Just try. His mouth feels dry. His pulse races. He can try, can’t he?

A noise on Foggy’s phone. “Matt. What did Wright say to you?”

He opens his mouth. No words come out. All he can hear is the electronic hum of the phone.

Foggy’s voice softens. “Matt pretend it’s just me and you here. You can talk to me.”

He forces himself to take a breath. Just him and Foggy here. He can speak to Foggy. He tries to pretend he’s talking about a case study. Something that happened to someone other than him. “He said - he s-s-said.” He grits his teeth, frustrated.

“It’s fine buddy. Take your time.”

Matt closes his eyes, tries to forget there’s something recording him. Tries to forget how that makes him feel. “He said - he said I d-d-deserved it. He used those words. You deserved it. And - and he - uh - he said I was - I was in on it.”

Anger in Foggy’s voice. “He say that the first time? At the station?”

“No.”

“In the interview?”

He nods, then remembers. Recording. He hopes it’s audio, not video. The idea of something videoing him makes his skin crawl. “Yes.”

“What did he say at the station?”

“He was angry. He had a friend that got fired because of the Fisk thing.” Good. Whole words for once. That shouldn’t feel like such an achievement. “And he - er - he.” God, he has to say this? But Foggy will want to know. And Brett will want to know. And it’ll stop Wright from being able to treat anyone else the same way.

He takes a breath. “He said he downloaded the -” The video. The video. Why is that so difficult? “The footage. That he w-w-w-watched it and-” Enjoyed it. No. He can’t say that. Not even if it’s better than the words he actually said.

_‘You stop fighting back. Just lay there. That’s the part I always whack off to.’_

“Matty. And what?”

He shakes his head. His heart races. “That’s it.”

“Matt. What else did he say to you?” Foggy’s heart races too. His muscles are too tense. Angry.

“I don’t want to - I don’t want to say.”

“Matt!”

“Three Foggy. Three!” He shakes his head, back pressed flat to the back of the sofa. His heart feels like it’s hammering in his throat. “Three. I don’t want to. Change of topic. Please.”

The anger disappears from the room as rapidly as the threat turned into Bucky earlier. A click from the phone. “Sorry Matty. I got caught up. I turned the phone off. We can stop.”

His chest is too tight. It won’t let enough air in.

The sound of fingers running through hair. Foggy’s heart beats too fast. “Matty. I’m - Christ I’m sorry. I screwed up. Just breathe, OK. Are you sure you’re only at three?”

Matt keeps his back pressed against the couch, shakes his head.

“OK. Change of topic.” Foggy’s hand lands hesitantly on his good shoulder. “I’ve been meaning to ask about this. Touch. I know it relaxes you. It always has. But after. I thought it might not work anymore, but it seems to. Is this OK? Me touching you?”

Foggy’s heart beats through his shoulder. He focuses on it, trying to get his breathing under control, trying to find the words. At least if he thinks about the question, he doesn’t have to think about Wright. “It - um - I can tell it’s you.”

Foggy’s heart skips. Surprised. “You can tell who I am from my touch?”

“From your-” his breath finds a better rhythm, even if it’s still too fast. “I feel your heartbeat when you touch me.”

“OK. Let me rephrase the question. You can tell who I am from my heartbeat?”

“Some are difficult if I don’t know them well, or they aren’t distinctive. But you I know. Smell helps, and footsteps and voice are distinctive, but those things change. You could injure your foot and walk differently. Or get a cold and sound different. Or cover your scent in some horrible cologne like Tony did last night. But hearts stay the same.”

“That’s almost poetic. Creepy, but poetic. But you can hear a heartbeat across a room, right? So how does touching make things any different?”

Matt’s been thinking about this ever since Foggy found out about Daredevil. The whole world on fire explanation didn’t go down well. Maybe he can explain it better this time. “My world is made up of subtle senses. You have no idea how much humans rely on sight until you lose it. You can look at something. Say a person, and know what they look like, what they’re feeling. To get any of the same information I have to pull it together from hearing, smell, the heat from their body, vibrations in the air. There’s a lot out there. And piecing it together needs concentration. When I’m losing it I can’t concentrate as well. But touch transmits your heartbeat directly into my body. It’s impossible to miss.”

Foggy squeezes his shoulder. “So you can feel my heart right now?”

“Yes.” Matt realises his breathing is normal. His heart isn’t beating so fast. Foggy’s good. “It’s not as creepy as you think.”

“It’s plenty creepy.” But there’s a faint joking tone in Foggy’s voice. He doesn’t mean it, much. “You can listen to my heart and know what I’m feeling.”

“And you can look at my expression and do the same thing. I can’t.” Matt shakes his head. “And hearts don’t work like that. If your heart speeds up that could mean you’re happy, scared, angry, worried, excited, upset. It’s not some kind of magic. I have to use other things to work out what you’re feeling. Scared and angry usually have their own smells. Tone of voice can help. Sometimes muscle tension, but a lot are similar. Upset and sometimes scared puts a wet quality in the voice. You can look at someone, see that they’re smiling, and know they’re happy. I can’t do that. I have to puzzle it out. And some of the time I’m still not sure. From my perspective you’re the one with the creepy talent.”

“Point,” Foggy says in a thoughtful voice. “I didn’t think of it like that. Maybe I could do with being more open minded. So expressions are still something you don’t get?”

“No. I mean if someone talks while they’re smiling I can usually hear it. I think they’re smiling anyway. It’s hard to be sure when you can’t ask.”

“For the record, you are free to ask me what my expression is anytime. And I’ll try narrating more. I guess I fell behind on that after finding out about your superpowers.”

Matt huffs. “They’re not superpowers.”

“Guess they’re really not for you.” Sadness in Foggy’s voice. “Well at least now I know why you kept getting those weird migraines in college. Sensory overload must be a bitch for someone with super-senses. This why your senses have been going haywire lately? You can’t concentrate?”

“It’s not too bad. Not as bad as when I take painkillers. Then it’s just this haze of information I can’t narrow down. Or when I was in the orphanage they gave me tranquillisers. Those were the worst. I’d spend hours with my hands over my ears screaming. I couldn’t block any of it out. Sometimes it got so bad I couldn’t process what someone was saying if they were sitting right next to me.”

Silence.

Matt rolls his eyes. “No Foggy. You can’t sue them.”

“You take all my fun.” A smile in Foggy’s voice.

Matt manages a smile back. A small one, maybe too weak to call an actual smile. It lasts a second, but for that second it’s real. “Thanks Foggy.”

“For what?”

“Distracting me.”

“Least I could do.” Fabric moving as Foggy stands up. “Now let’s risk Bucky’s wraith and go for a walk. There’s this place I think you’ll like.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Opening doors to gym level now,” Jarvis says as the elevator doors whoosh open.

Matt taps his cane over the threshold. Foggy grips his elbow lightly. It’s not their usual guiding arrangement, but changes have to be made for only having one arm. He can’t wait until he gets the other one back. The cast itches horribly, and keeping his arm strapped against his chest is starting to feel too normal.

“OK,” Foggy says. “So it’s a big room. And I mean big. You could fit your apartment in here at least four times over. And the ceiling is tall. It’s at least two floors high. There’s some acrobatic hanging stuff on the far left of the room that makes use of that. Don’t ask me to be more specific about it. I have no clue what it’s for. But hey, looks like something you might get a kick out of when your arm heals.”

Matt follows the echoes of Foggy’s voice around the room. It is big. All the noises have that echoing quality. There’s a smell of rubber mats and stale sweat. A large object to his left, and the sound of punches being exchanged further into the room. Clint’s distinctive heartbeat, and he thinks the other is Natasha? The familiar sounds of fists against punching bags somewhere ahead of him to the right. A strong heartbeat. Either Steve or Bucky.

They walk into the room. Foggy chuckles. “Bleachers to your left. Real bleachers, like high school. And oh hey - Clint and Natasha sparring in a boxing ring. You’re going to love this place when you can use it. Steve to our right beating on a line of punching bags. Don’t get any ideas Matt. No punching at least until that shoulder is healed.”

A surprised noise that sounds like Clint. “Hey it’s-” Flesh against flesh as Natasha takes advantage of his distraction to punch him. The slam of flesh against rubber as Clint sprawls to the bottom of the boxing ring.

Steve sighs. The sounds of the punching bag stops. “Stop getting distracted Hawkeye! And Nat, keep your guard up. Don’t get overconfident.”

A smooth sound as Clint flips neatly to his feet. There’s a grin in his voice. “Yeah Nat. Don’t get overconfident.”

The next few blows are evenly matched. None sound like they land. Both bodies move with a smoothness few can manage. Clint has a touch less grace, but Nat is more wary despite Steve’s tip. She might keep her fists lower than she should, but she dodges more than hits, letting several possible openings pass by, perhaps waiting for the perfect one.

They’re both more than good. Daredevil wouldn’t beat either of them.

Steve’s footsteps make their way towards them. He smells of sweat. “Hey Matt, Foggy. What are you two up to?”

“Matt’s starting to go a little stir crazy, so I thought I’d take him someplace he could walk and let him loose.” Foggy lets go of Matt’s elbow, patting him on the arm.

Matt blinks. Let him loose? He can go?

“You want the doors straight ahead,” Foggy says. Warmth in his voice. A trace of nerves too. “It’s a room almost as big as this one. Lots of obstacles. They use it for Nerf gun battles. Don’t walk into anything. Don’t trip over the mats between here and there. And please stay on the ground Matty. You can do your flips or cartwheels or whatever once you’re a bit more healed. Deal?”

Deal. Definitely a deal. He nods enthusiastically.

“Bucky’s in the shooting range. It’s behind a door in the back right corner of the gym,” Steve says. “It’s probably best if you stay away from there. He’s working out his anger. The game show this Friday has him on edge. And well, he’s still a little upset about this morning.”

This morning. When Matt almost attacked him for no reason.

“Hey.” Fabric sliding over fabric. “I’m crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at you pointedly. No guilt face. Go play. Be happy. I’ll be along in a few minutes. And I know I’m a terrible worrier, but I’d like it if you could stay in that room until I come. The swimming pool is to the left of the Nerf gun room and up the stairs. The pool is a weird shape and I have horrible visions of you marching over the edge. I’d like to walk the perimeter with you so I know you have it in your head.”

Matt huffs.

“Don’t give me that. Second year. One of Jack whatever’s parties. Need I go on?”

Matt shakes his head, making a face. That had been down to the loud music more than anything. That and the gasoline scented perfume the girl pawing at him had worn. Ugh, and the stink of weed. Those parties were terrible.

“Have fun Matty.”

Matt walks straight ahead, sweeping his cane from side to side. The wooden floor wears dents that he can feel through his fluffy socks and bandages. He’s most of the way across the room when he hears the repeated banging of a gun. It’s muffled, but still enough to make him wince. He shakes his head to get rid of it, pressing a hand to one of his ears and chancing the last dozen steps to the change in air flow that means door without his cane.

“It’s a sound proof room,” Steve says behind him. “He can hear that?”

“Apparently so,” Foggy says casually. “And he can probably hear us right now, which, not cool Matty. Quit with the dropping of eaves.”

Matt tries for a moment, fumbling for the handle of the door in front of him and stepping through. He does try. Foggy should have some privacy. But standing in the new room that smells like rubber, wood, metal, and not Foggy. It makes his heart beat too fast in his chest. Makes his hand tense around his cane.

It’s hard to remember that he’s in the Avengers tower, and not somewhere else. Blinking rapidly, he latches onto the faint sound of Foggy breathing. It’s too far away to hear his heartbeat, but he can just about make out some of his harsher exhales.

“How are you doing?” Steve asks softly.

A harsh chuckle from Foggy. “Perfect. I screwed up again. But at least this time I didn’t physically assault him. So yay for that. I’m expecting my best friend award any day now.”

There are a lot of objects in the room. No heartbeats. Matt sweeps his cane forward, tapping it against something rubber. Air flow suggests it comes up to his chest. He pokes it with his cane, following the edges. Square. The little ambient noise in the room doesn’t give him much of a picture of his surroundings. He needs more.

“You’re a great friend,” Steve says. “The way he connects with you, it’s amazing. You’re good for him.”

Matt mentally upgrades his opinion of Steve, which was pretty high anyway.

“I wouldn’t feel so bad if he didn’t forgive me so easily. Christ. I leave him twice when he needs me. I said some horrible things to him before I found out exactly what happened. Things that make me want to puke. I shook him right after he had a flashback. Drove him into a panic attack. I don’t know why he puts up with me.”

Matt ignores the impulse to rush back to Foggy and find some way to make him feel better. His presence won’t help. It’s his presence that made Foggy so upset in the first place.

Silence for a beat.

Matt taps his way toward the smell of metal. Some kind of rail he thinks from what he can make out from the sound of his cane against the wooden floor. Metal is one of the best sounds for this. He gives the rail a sharp hit with his cane. The room lights up.

It’s sort of beautiful. A flood of information that details all the objects around them, how wide they are, how tall they are. It takes several seconds for the last of the sound-waves from the metal to fade away. Luckily he has a good memory. He holds the image in his mind, using it to navigate to something nearer the back of the room that looks like it could be another rail.

Steve’s voice. “Bucky’s come a long way, so I don’t think he’ll mind me telling you this. But the first couple weeks I got him back I thought we were doing great. There were issues, but all I’d need to do was suggest he do something like shower or eat, and he’d do it. I was happy. Thought he trusted me. Turns out he’d mentally designated me as some kind of mission head and was blindly following my orders. Made me feel like shit when I found out. It’s a long journey. You’ll make a lot of mistakes. Just try not to be too hard on yourself. And if you need time out, or to talk, remember we’re here for both of you.”

Foggy lets out a breath. It sounds wet. “I’m just scared, you know? Maurice. I can tell he’s going to be great. But he said something in my first session that really threw me for a loop. Since then it’s all I can think about.”

Matt’s heart clenches. He shouldn’t be listening to this. He whacks the cane hard against the second railing, concentrates on enjoying the rush of sound-waves. It adds an extra layer of information to the one he already has. A few objects that had been hidden behind the others. In a contained area like this one, his footsteps and airflow are enough to detail shapes close up, but it’s nice to have a clear picture of the whole room.

Steve’s voice is wry. “The speech? The one that goes ‘our aim isn’t to force him to be how he was, but to help him be the most stable version of who he can become?’”

“Yeah. Christ Matty, you better not be listening to this.” A pause. “It’s just. I didn’t realise until then, getting him back to how he was was exactly what I thought I was doing. I mean, he’s awesome. I’ll take him however I can get him. Because he’s Matty, you know? He’ s my best friend. But I feel bad because he changed and I missed it. I didn’t even notice at first. I kind of feel like I turned my back for a minute and he went through five years worth of stuff while I wasn’t watching. And I’m never going to be able to get that time back, or be there for him through it. Does that make any sense?”

Sadness in Steve’s voice. “That makes a lot of sense.”

If he was close enough, Matt bets he would hear Foggy’s heart jump. “Jesus. Right. Sorry. That was tactless of me.”

“It’s OK.” A smile in Steve’s voice? “You might not get that time back. But you can be there for him now. That’s what I hold onto.”

Movement as the door opens. A click as it closes. The scent of rose shampoo, subtle perfume he can’t place, sweat. A steady heartbeat. Graceful footsteps.

“You mind if I come in?” Natasha’s footsteps stop a little into the room.

Matt doesn’t turn his face towards her, shrugs a shoulder.

Her footsteps continue towards him. No shoes. She barely makes a sound. “Point at the door if you want me to leave.”

Matt nods, taps the cane lightly against the metal of the railing. The sound-waves mix with the information about the heat from her skin, giving an impression of shape. She’s slim, around five inches shorter than him.

“Why go for the metal and not any of the other materials in here?” She asks, voice casual. Her feet stop a fair distance away from him. She leans against something that smells of wood. “Does it help you see better?”

A slow nod.

“You’re uncomfortable around me,” she says. “I get that. It must be nerve wracking being around all these strangers without any idea about how much they know about you. The others want to play things safe, not mention anything that might be a trigger. But me, if I were in your situation I’d want the truth. So what’s it going to be Murdock? Do you want the truth?”

Matt twists the handle of the cane in his hand. The truth? He hesitates before nodding.

Fabric against wood as Natasha hops onto the object, legs swinging in the air. “There are some things we’d like to know to keep you safe. I’ll ask a question. You can tell the truth or lie, it doesn’t matter. Then I’ll give you a truth. Something about what someone in this building knows or thinks about your situation. We have a rule in this house. You get overwhelmed you can tell someone to back off, which means they back away and stop whatever they were talking about. Or fuck off, which means they leave the room. Give me a stop signal if you want me to back off. Point at the door if you want me to fuck off. Ready?”

Matt fiddles with the cane, nods.

“Have you ever cut yourself?” The words roll into the air, stark and unapologetic.

Matt shakes his head.

Fabric shifting as Natasha leans forward. Her clothes are baggy. They make a lot of noise. “No one here has seen the video. I’d know if they had. Have you cut yourself in the last five years?”

Matt blinks rapidly, suddenly aware of his lack of glasses. He needs to remember to ask Foggy for a replacement pair. He should have one somewhere. He just keeps forgetting to look for them. Another shake of the head. This one isn’t a lie.

“Clint was the first to find the video. He’s your biggest fan. Likes to check the Internet every now and again to see if there’s any new footage of you parkouring. He woke me in the middle of the night. He’d found a video titled ‘Daredevil unmasked.’ While he may have impulse issues, he’s also insanely loyal. He didn’t want to watch it because he didn’t want to breach your privacy, but was afraid of what might happen to you if it wasn’t a hoax and others found who you were. He wanted me to tell him what to do. I scanned the comments, realised what it was and told him not to watch it. I sent it to Jarvis to analyse to see if it was real. He can partition information from his main database so don’t worry, the Jarvis that runs the tower hasn’t seen the video either. Once Jarvis confirmed what it was, he prevented anyone in the tower from clicking on it by accident.”

Matt takes a slow breath. Daredevil unmasked. No wonder so many people clicked on the video. There are a lot of people curious about who’s behind the mask. Even those who hadn’t heard of him would be drawn in by the idea of a vigilante being unmasked. And no warning about its other contents.

“Have you ever cut yourself deep enough to need stitches?”

He shakes his head, this time jerky. He tried to be careful. And it’s not like he cut that often. It was experimental, to see if it worked better than the biting. There was one time just before he gave it up. It’s hard to be restrained with something you use as an emotional release valve. And the knives he managed to get hold of at the orphanage were always too blunt. He’d had to swipe them to cut the skin, and that doesn’t give much control. It’s not like he meant to cut that deep. And while it technically could’ve done with stitches, it had healed all right without any. Ugly, but all right..

“To start with Steve was the cool head. He tried to tell Tony not to get involved. He was convinced that the police would deal with it, and arrest the attackers. Watching the news on Monday night, it finally dawned on him that the police were only out to arrest you and no one else. He lost it. That television in the communal lounge? Brand new. Bucky had to restrain him.”

Everyone knows that Steve Rogers hates bullies, but the idea of Captain America losing it because of a stranger is hard to believe.

“How many times did you need stitches? One? Two? OK. One. Tony tried to identify you before the police found you. He was planning on bringing you back here and surrounding you with his best lawyers. I think it was partly Clint’s begging, partly because Tony Stark has a bigger problem with injustice than Captain America at times, and doesn’t have the rosy view of the world Steve can have. The blind thing threw him off for a bit. Then he intercepted enough tips to be sure of your identity shortly before Foggy contacted him. If you hadn’t reached out, he would’ve reached out to you.”

Her scary ability to read him doesn’t seem as shocking next to the idea that all these people cared what happened to him before he knew them. It’s strange. Why would they care about him?

“Last question. Are you thinking about killing yourself?”

Matt shakes his head. It’s not a lie.

“Good Matt. That’s really good.” A smile in her voice like she’s genuinely happy. “Every single one of us wants you here. We know what it’s like to go through hell and need people to have your back. So we have your back, and we’ll continue to have your back as long as you need us to, longer if you’ll let us.”

Her heart says truth. Can she control her heart enough to fool his senses? He’s not sure. But her heart does say truth.

***

“Matt!” Foggy shouts as Matt takes the invitation to collapse on one of the gym mats. “You should’ve told me as soon as you were getting tired.”

Matt isn’t tired. Not as much as aching and in pain. But it’s not like he can tell Foggy that. Well maybe he can. He’ll figure out a way if he can’t get the pain under control on his own. This is stupid. It’s not like he did back-flips or anything. He just walked. And yeah, maybe he should’ve taken that break Foggy suggested twenty minutes ago, but there were no easy places to sit nearby, and he didn’t want to sit on the ground. His insides aren’t agony any more, but they’re raw, and they’re surrounded by sprained muscles. If he sits on something that hard he’s going to feel it, and that’s harder to take since the last big flashback.

Then when there were places to sit nearby he didn’t know how to ask. They’d walked around the obstacles, and the perimeter of the pool, and a large empty space at the back of the floor Tony’s turning into a giant jungle gym for him and Clint. Matt’s not sure what to think of that. Then there was the balcony next to the Nerf gun room. It turns out the gym floor is low enough to hear the city, and that had been so fascinating Matt hadn’t wanted to leave for a while. Then Foggy had wanted to narrate the sparring between Bucky and Steve, and Matt hadn’t known how to ask.

So he lies on the thick gym mat and tries not to shake. He’s sweating. He can smell it. And it turns out lying down is a terrible idea. His ribs and shoulder have had quite enough of the rough treatment he’s been giving them the past few days and are paying back with interest.

The mat smells like feet anyway. He leans his weight to the left, meaning to get up off his shoulder at least. A sprained something in a place that should never be sprained screams, and fuck, he doesn’t want this. Everything is too raw, and present, and it all aches. He doesn’t want this.

“Is this an I’ve fallen and I can’t get up moment? Because I don’t care if you’re hurt. I will tease you if you’ve pushed yourself so hard that you-” A pause. Fabric shifting as Foggy kneels by his side. Foggy’s heart races. “You aren’t tired are you? You’re in pain. Where does it hurt? Your feet?”

Matt grins. It feels like broken glass on his face. That’s the one place he doesn’t seem to hurt.

Bucky’s voice over in the boxing ring. “I can’t Steve. He’s afraid of me.”

Foggy’s hand, warm on the back of his neck. Another on his back. They ease him to a sitting position, through all the protesting muscles that try to stop him on the way up. Matt tries to hide how much pain he’s in, but from the wet in Foggy’s breathing he’s guessing he’s unsuccessful.

Bucky’s uneven footsteps make their way towards them. His heart flutters with nerves.

“Look,” Foggy says. “I get that painkillers mess with your senses. I understand that you would want to stay sharp. But you’ve got a whole two days until court. More than enough time for it to leave your system. You can afford to go without your senses for a while. How about it? You take a pill. We’ll cover you in ice-packs and your duvet. I’ll find some truly horrible television to narrate for you. I know you like my descriptions better than the official ones anyway.”

Matt swallows. It’s hard to get a full breath. Not because of panic for once. But because his ribs ache, his shoulder throbs, all his muscles are a giant mass of aches and stabbing pains. Walking, and now sitting woke up several spots of hurt that he doesn’t have the capacity to think about right now. His stomach churns.

“Can I help?” Bucky sounds way too timid for someone who used to be the Winter Soldier.

“Yeah Bucky,” Foggy says. He shifts, wrapping an arm carefully around Matt’s back. It helps take the strain off some of the muscles in his back. “Back me up here. If Matt goes blind blind for a few hours we’ll make sure no one bothers him, right?”

Movement of hair? Bucky nods? “Count on it.”

“See Matty. We’ve got Bucky Barnes on our side. What do you say? Take a couple aspirin? If you’re still hurting bad we’ll talk about whether or not to break out the codeine?”

No. He couldn’t do that. It’s been over a week. The pain is less a stabbing and more a bone deep ache. His ribs are still pretty painful. Between the throwing up, the panic attacks, and Wright they haven’t had much of a break. But they’re only cracked. He’s dealt with broken ribs before. Compared to that cracked ribs are nothing.

The shoulder is a new kind of pain. He’s never broken his shoulder blade before. It’s not too bad most of the time. A little stabbing pain at the beginning. But mostly a vice like tightness, now dull enough to ignore unless he jostles it or puts weight on it too long. Now that vice tightness has increased enough that he wonders whether he should run a hand along his shoulder blade just to check there isn’t actually a truck parked on it.

Then there’re the other pains. The ones inside. And they don’t really hurt anymore. They don’t. Not compared to what he’s used to. The sprains all around his back, hips, and legs, where he’d tried to twist to get away. They hurt more. But the ones inside still hurt. He can still feel them. And they shouldn’t hurt. He shouldn’t feel them. He doesn’t want to feel them anymore.

He coughs. For a moment he wonders where that came from. Then it happens again, and he realises he’s not coughing. He’s gagging. He leans away from Foggy in time to throw up on the mat. The movement lights up every place on his body he’s hurt like a road-map, and he gags again, and again, and again, until it’s bile burning his throat instead of mostly digested pancakes.

His lungs heave. His ribs scream. Foggy’s hand rubs circles in his back. There are words around him, but Matt can’t tell what they are.

Finally it stops and Matt just breathes.

A arm around his chest. Movement. He’s being dragged backward along the mat, away from the pungent stink of bile. His mouth tastes so horrible he wonders if he might throw up again.

Plastic clatters beside him. And the slosh of water?

“Here Matty.” Foggy, half propping him up into a sitting position. “I’ve got a bucket. Rinse and spit.”

His hand shakes enough that Foggy has to help him guide the water bottle to his mouth. He rinses, spits. Rinses, spits. It takes over half the bottle before his mouth tastes tolerable again. He makes a face.

“Yeah. I bet.” Foggy takes the bottle from him. Plastic over rubber as the bucket is moved away. “So what was that? Are you sick?”

Matt shakes his head.

Foggy’s hand appears on Matt’s forehead anyway. Palm to forehead, before twisting to press back of hand to forehead. A ritual Matt’s not convinced has any purpose. Possibly genetic since he remembers Mrs Nelson doing the same thing that Christmas Candace brought back a horrible bug from somewhere and passed it onto Foggy and Matt.

“You sure?” Foggy’s weight is a solid warmth along his left side. A hand pushes away some of the damp curls stuck to his forehead. “You’re flushed, and you’re sweating.”

He’s shaking too, just a little, but he’s not sick.

The sound of something wet wiping across rubber. Bucky’s heartbeat, a little faster than it should be. Steve’s heartbeat behind him. Is Bucky? He is. He’s cleaning up Matt’s vomit. It would be nice if he figured out how to stop humiliating himself in front of these people.

Foggy’s voice, quieter. “Is this because of the pain?”

He shrugs a little into Foggy’s side. The action is difficult. Sitting upright while not leaning too much into Foggy is difficult. And it’s not even that it’s difficult. He’s dealt with worse before. It’s that he’s shirking from the pain. Hiding from it when he should be pushing through it.

Foggy breathes out, wet. Upset. “Take an aspirin buddy. Please.”

He hesitates a moment, then nods.

***

Matt takes two aspirin. Then when Foggy offers him a codeine tablet an hour later, he takes that too.

They find him some pillows that smell clean, and he uses them and his duvet to prop himself up against the corner of the couch. His legs lie across Foggy’s, the duvet over them both. He hangs the fleece blanket over the side of the couch, and presses the side of his face into it, gripping a corner in his hand.

He’s not sure what’s wrong.

Sometimes he’s too hot. Sometimes he’s too cold. He’s nauseous, and then he’s not. He’s tired. He’s so so tired. But he’s also not. Something presses on his chest. Not the clawing feeling. This is heavy. A deep sucking dread that tells him there is a whole world out there beyond this couch and Foggy. There are the Avengers. There’s Olivia, Fiona, the physiotherapist he’ll meet tomorrow. Hundreds, thousands, millions more. They all have expectations.

There’s the passage of time. The knowledge that each second, minute, hour he spends here, someone gets hurt. Someone screams for help, and if he were out there listening he would hear them. Time passes. And he’s not improving himself. He’s not working on a case, or doing anything that helps anyone. He’s just lying here.

All of that guilt should fire him to do something. Instead it weighs him down. He hides from it, just like he hides from any reminder of his injuries.

“Matty? Are you listening?”

Matt turns his face toward Foggy. It’s an effort.

Movement. A gesture maybe? “Buddy. I just narrated the gruesome deaths of everyone on the shopping channel by the hands of the doll they’re selling. What’s up?”

Matt blinks.

“It’s just you and me in the room,” Foggy says. “You can talk.”

Matt turns his face away from Foggy.

“Buddy. What number are we on?”

The air around him is too heavy. It’s hard to force it into his lungs.

“Matty?” A hand rubs his leg.

Bile rises in his throat. He kicks out. Not hard. Just enough to scramble his legs away from Foggy. He curls up instead, feet pressed into the side of Foggy’s leg. And it’s a bad idea because he has to move. He has to feel all the aches and pains and bruises that don’t quite disappear even with the painkillers. He has to find a new position among the duvet and pillows that reminds him the least of how and where he’s hurt.

The ice-packs wrapped around his ribs stay in place, but he has to twist to put the one on his shoulder back on, and that hurts. He doesn’t want to hurt right now.

“It’s OK Matty.” Wet in Foggy’s voice. “You’re OK.”

Matt can’t hear his heartbeat. He doesn’t know if it’s a lie.

There’s the whoosh of the elevator doors, several times. Voices. Footsteps. Sometimes Foggy tries to make him move. There are questions. Does he want something to drink? Something to eat? He’s shaking again, is he too cold? What number is he on? Can he nod? Does he want his bed?

He lets it wash past him. Sometimes the words don’t even make sense until later. Except when Foggy shifts, his hand appearing on Matt’s neck or arm, asking him to sit up a little, take a sip of water at least. He tenses his muscles, turns his head away. The time Foggy asks him if he wants to stand up, walk to the elevator, be thrown up several floors with a speed that makes his stomach flip, walk to his apartment, walk to his bedroom, construct a new nest on his bed that lets him forget his injuries as much as this one, it’s too much. He wraps his arm around his face, trying to cover the ear on the opposite side of his head. Eventually Foggy leaves him alone.

“Is this because of the painkillers?” Someone asks at some point. Steve.

“No.” Foggy’s voice sounds choked. “It’s not the painkillers.”

The sound of a catchy theme tune. Something about ponies and friendship. Bucky and Sam’s voices having a passionate conversation about the history of something called Equestria with Foggy. Foggy seems to understand as little of it as Matt does. Enough of the choke is gone from his voice that Matt thinks some time might’ve passed.

The smell of spices along with Tony’s fast careless footsteps, and Bruce’s shuffling ones. The crinkling of plastic as something is set on wood. The table?

“Seriously Brucie. You shouldn’t take it from them. They’re the ones who hired you to consult. They shouldn’t treat you like that.” Tony.

“It’s fine Tony. I can deal with it. You had the worse day anyway.” Bruce sighs. “Foggy, are we OK in here? We can eat in the penthouse instead.”

Tony makes a pleased noise. “I do keep the good alcohol up there.”

“Or on one of the other hundred floors,” Bruce adds quickly. “Tony. I’m not sure you don’t have a concussion. No alcohol tonight.”

Foggy flinches by Matt’s feet. “Concussion? Are you OK?”

“Fine. Fine.” A pause. Maybe some kind of gesture? “Usual superhero stuff. Nothing I can’t handle.”

The duvet moves. A hand rests against his. Matt tenses before he recognises the heartbeat. Foggy.

“Matty? Do you want these guys in here? It’s everyone but Natasha and Sam tonight. Come on. Nod or shake your head. Give me an answer buddy.”

As long as they don’t make him move, Matt doesn’t care.

“Matt?” Foggy asks, quieter. “Do you want your bed?”

His bed involves moving. He doesn’t want to move.

Wet in Foggy’s breath. “I don’t know what to do. Fiona said to try to make him feel safe and comfortable, but if he doesn’t talk to me, how am I supposed to know what that is?”

Tony’s footsteps move away.

Bruce’s voice, soft. “What do you think he’d want?”

“I don’t know. I-” Foggy’s hand squeezes around his. “I think he looks more ‘there’ when people are around him. Like listening to them talk gives him something to focus on. But I don’t know if I’m imagining that.”

“We can try it,” Tony says. “Just tell us to fuck off if you think he wants us to leave.”

Then there are people. He thinks the painkillers are fading. Enough that he can focus in on some of the subtler things. The movement of clothes and hair. The heat of their bodies as they pass him. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like it when they pass too close to him. And maybe he makes some sort of sign, because Foggy’s thumb rubs over the back of his hand, and the next person walks around Foggy’s side of the couch instead.

Foggy’s hand leaves his. The slide of wood against wood. “We got Indian. There’s some of that yellow rice you like on a tray across from you. Or I can get some soup. Do you want some soup?”

Eating sounds terrible right now. Exhausting. And it means he’d have to move. If he moves he’s going to have to interact, to be a part of the world around him. He’s going to have to get up, and walk, and talk to Olivia, and go to court. There are people out there in the world. They know his face. They know what happened to him. They’ll have questions. Some of them might say things like Wright did.

“Buddy?” Fingertips brushing through his hair.

Matt flinches back so hard his head hits the back of the couch.

“Crap. Sorry. Here. I’m going to touch your head Matt. Let’s try this again.” The hand comes back.

Matt flinches at the contact, but this time the hand doesn’t move. It stays still, pressed flat on the side of Matt’s head. A familiar heartbeat thrums through it. Foggy. The tension leaves his shoulders. He lets his head flop back on the pillows.

“You recognise me now, right? So I’m guessing I don’t have an ultra neat - I don’t know - resonance to my heartbeat or something. Or maybe I do and you need the pattern of a few beats to work it out. So fingertips, no. Hand, yes? Some kind of decent surface area to sense through, and a second or two to understand the information you’re getting? Am I getting this freaky heartbeat sensor thing right?”

The flood of Foggy’s words is soothing. The idea that he might expect a response is not soothing.

“So, oatmeal, soup, or yellow rice? What’s it going to be?”

He’s hungry. He thinks he’s hungry. But he doesn’t want to eat. He shakes his head.

Foggy’s heart skips. Surprise. “Hey buddy. Hey. It’s nice to talk with you again. That was good Matty. Are you thirsty?”

He frowns. His mouth is too dry. His head hurts with the kind of tightness you get when you don’t drink for a while. He still doesn’t want to move, but he did just move with that flinch. His body’s not placed right in his nest of pillows and duvet. He’ll have to move anyway to find a comfortable position again. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to drink first.

Foggy’s hand leaves his head. The slosh of water against plastic. The couch jumps as Foggy sits back down, perching next to him. The hand comes back, this time on his neck. The flinch is less.

Plastic against plastic. Foggy’s body leans close, the heat of his body overshadowing the faint traces of heat behind it. Hiding him from view of others in the room. The hand on his neck levers him upright. The arm presses against his shoulder, taking most of Matt’s weight.

Plastic pressed into his hand. A hand around his when he tries to raise the bottle and some liquid splashes down his arm. It’s hard to remember how to move after so much time staying as still as possible.

“You’re drinking buddy, remember?”

Right. He’d forgotten. He lets the hand around his guide the bottle the rest of the way to his lips. The rim is too hard against his lips. It tips then-

Matt chokes. Water spills down his chin. He’s drinking, he reminds himself. He’s trying to drink. He needs to focus on that, and not keep forgetting what he’s supposed to be doing. It’s not supposed to be this difficult, right? He can’t remember it being this difficult before.

Cloth wipes over the bottom half of his face. It smells like Foggy. Foggy’s hand stays on the back of his neck.

Foggy sighs. “Let’s try this again bud.” The hand tightens on the back of his neck. The plastic rim of the bottle meets his lips again. It tips slower this time without Matt’s hand trying to move it. Water enters his mouth. “Swallow.”

The world explodes. It feels like fear. It sounds like water splashing. Pain in his arm, shoulder, and ribs. The impact of flesh against wood. A pained sound. Startled gasps. People getting to their feet.

“Matt. You’re fine.” It’s not Foggy’s voice.

His chest feels too tight. There are objects around him, and everything is wrong. Something happened? What happened? He tries to move. The world around him is soft and oddly shaped. He kicks away something tangled over his legs. He’s - where is he?

“Matt. You’re in Avengers tower. It’s Sunday March 27th. 6:15 pm. You had a flashback. You’re safe.” Not Foggy’s voice sounds familiar. Deep with a bit of a Brooklyn accent. “It’s Bucky. I’m here. Foggy’s here. So’s Steve, Bruce, Tony, Pepper, and Clint.”

The objects are too close. It’s suffocating. He shoves them away from him. They’re soft. They smell like pillows. There’s a blanket too, softer still. Fleece. He pushes it away. A light thump as it falls. And no. No. He wanted that.

Everything is wrong.

“Matty.” Foggy’s voice. Pained. Coming from where? A little way away. Not far. There are other people by him he thinks. “Matty, you’re OK. You’re safe. We’re in the Avengers tower. We’re safe. It’s just another flashback buddy. Breathe.”

His skin crawls. He can’t breathe. There’s an exit somewhere. Somewhere behind the wall on his right. His hand finds the top of the wall. He can jump over it and-

“Matthew don’t move!” Foggy’s voice. Shouting. Angry? Is he angry?

Matt freezes.

Foggy’s footsteps move close. Are they his footsteps? They sound a little like it, but they limp. Foggy doesn’t limp. The ground underneath him shifts as Foggy sits down. No, not ground. Softer. He should know this. He should know what it is.

He ducks his head. Foggy is mad?

“Matty you’re fine. It’s OK. Just.” Foggy sucks in a breath. “Do you know where you are?”

He’s supposed to know. He knows he’s supposed to know.

“Tell me what you’re sitting on bud.”

He knows this. His hand shakily traces the material. Rough. Smooth. “Couch. It’s - it’s couch.”

“Good job Matty. Do you know what room we’re in?”

He sits down on the couch. He’s shaking. He doesn’t know why. “Spices. Indian. Pancakes. Humming noise. Lots of - lots of humming noise. Wood polish. Leather. Heartbeats? Television. Ponies.”

“Some day I’ll figure out how your brain works.” Skin against cloth as Foggy rubs his leg. “Ponies?”

There were - there were ponies. “A song?”

“I guess it was pretty catchy.” Foggy laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “We’re in the communal lounge. Avengers tower. We’re safe. You had a flashback. You were drinking some water and I think I accidentally triggered you. Can I have your hand?”

He hesitates before holding it out. It shakes all over the place.

Foggy’s hand closes lightly over his. His heartbeat thrums down Matt’s arm. That’s supposed to make everything better, but it doesn’t. Everything is still wrong.

“Matty. Buddy. You’re OK. Do you know where you are?”

He nods. Communal lounge. Avengers Tower. He’s safe. Everything is still wrong. He raises his knees to his chest, buries his face in them. Red hot lines of wet drip down his cheeks. He focuses on slowing his breathing.

“The Avengers are giving us space,” Foggy says. His thumb moves rhythmically over the back of Matt’s hand. “They’re in the other room. They won’t mind leaving. Do you want them to leave?”

That feeling of wrongness fills his chest. He pulls his hand free of Foggy’s.

“Buddy? Do you want to go to our apartment?”

“Stop it.” The tears fall hard and fast, but they seem oddly disconnected from the rest of him. “Go away.”

Foggy’s heart stutters. “You want me to leave?”

No. That’s not what he meant. He wants the questions to go. The expectations to go. The “Everything.”

Foggy shifts on the couch. “Buddy. I’ll help you if I can. You know I will. But you need to try to explain what you want.”

He doesn’t know how to explain it. He doesn’t know what he wants.

“How about we get the Avengers to leave for a while. What do you think?”

He pushes away from Foggy, until the corner of the couch hits his back. His hand clenches into a fist. He scrubs the tears from his face with his sleeve, hard enough to hurt.

“Buddy. I need to know what you want.”

“Stop. Please.” There was a word that had helped before, wasn’t there? “Three.” That was it. “Three.”

“I think you’re more than three. Oh.” A shocked exhale. “Change of topic. You don’t like what I’m talking about. I’m asking you things. I’m asking you to make decisions.”

Matt nods. He draws his knees up to his chest again, rests his head on them.

“No decisions right now?”

No decisions. Matt nods against his knees.

Fabric against leather as Foggy shifts. “Is it OK if I make decisions? If you hate them, tell me no.”

Another nod.

***

Foggy decides the Avengers should leave. They don’t seem to mind. None of them slow their pace as they gather up their things and walk to the elevator. Maybe they aren’t staring at Matt, huddled in the corner of the couch with the fleece blanket clenched in a fist. He hopes they aren’t staring.

He also decides Matt should eat and drink. Matt tells him no both times, or at least he shakes his head. Then Foggy decides to set up a bed with the duvet and pillows, and that Matt needs a Nelson hug to stop shaking.

Matt doesn’t say no, but he resists Foggy’s efforts to pull him into one. Eventually Foggy lies down beside Matt on the pile of pillows and duvet. He eats his food, keeps offering Matt bites of yellow rice and sips of water. They watch several episodes of the pony show which Foggy narrates.

Matt’s not sure when he falls asleep, but when he wakes his head is pressed into Foggy’s sternum. That familiar heartbeat pounds its rhythm through his skull, making it difficult to hear much else. His hand clutches Foggy’s shirt, and he’s finally stopped shaking.

“Hey Mom.” Foggy’s words vibrate through Matt’s whole body. It’s a rumbling sound that he feels more than hears. He thinks he likes it.

Foggy’s hand cards through his hair. It soothes him back to the edge of sleep.

“Yeah. It’s Foggy.” Wet in Foggy’s voice. Wet in Foggy’s lungs. There’s something about that he should notice. He can’t remember what. “Listen. Can you sit down a moment? Good. I need to tell you something. I haven’t been completely honest with you. The truth is Matt’s not doing so good.”


	14. Chapter 14

“He’s still refusing to eat or drink,” Foggy’s voice vibrates through him. It’s nice, just like the thumping of his heart right underneath Matt’s ear.

It’s been a while since Foggy’s phone call to his mother. Maybe he slept again. He’s not sure. Mrs Nelson was sad. She cried. She must have asked to be put on speaker phone because her voice appeared by his head, talking to him. It was hard to make out words among all the sobbing. She said they loved him. He knows that because she said it several times.

Every now and then she’d asked Foggy if Matt had given any kind of response. After Foggy’s third excuse about Matt being tired, Mrs Nelson had stopped sobbing. “Oh my God Franklin,” she’d said in a hushed whisper. “Is he catatonic?”

Foggy took the phone off speaker again. Matt could make out more sobbing, but mostly he concentrated on Foggy’s rumbling voice telling his mother that no she couldn’t come see him. That would make things worse. They have too much going on now. After Grand Jury was finished they’d arrange a visit. For now they’ll make sure to contact her every day and let her know what’s going on.

Fabric against wood as Steve? Yes, Steve. Sits on the coffee table. “If we make it to 36 hours we’ll start talking about IVs. Until then all you can do is keep prompting. He’s had these episodes before, right? And he came out of them.”

“Usually I can get him to at least sip some water. He’s-” Foggy’s heart races beneath Matt’s ear. His muscles tense. The sound of fingers through hair. “How can they expect him to go to court like this? He’s got super hearing and a fuck-load of triggers I don’t even know about. He’s nowhere near ready to go out there.”

“Tony’s working on something for that.” Bucky’s voice. From the smaller couch. “Says it’ll be done sometime tomorrow.”

Confusion in Foggy’s voice. “Do you know what it is?”

“Tony likes to keep these things a surprise,” Steve says with a fond tone.

Bucky’s heart makes an odd noise. Stuttering. Evasive. “You uh - you know anything he likes? Anything that might help him come out of this faster?”

“Yeah,” Foggy says. “Can you grab that fleece blanket? And his iPod. I think that was on the coffee table when - you know.”

Coffee table? What happened with the coffee table?

There’s a noise. Movement of air. Something lands on him. Soft. Fleece. Nice. Foggy’s hand stops combing through his hair to rub circles in the fabric. He can feel the softness through the hoodie.

“Got it,” Steve’s voice says. Something plastic lands on the leather couch beside Foggy. “If you’re staying down here, we’re going to camp out for the night. I don’t think you two should be alone right now.”

“As long as you don’t mind listening to - how to train your dragon four? My God buddy, Karen got you well and truly addicted didn’t she? Hey Jarvis can you sync to this and play it until Matt falls asleep?”

A pause. “Synced Mr Nelson. Would you like me to resume play or start from the beginning?”

“Let’s go from the beginning. That way I have a chance of knowing what all the fuss is about.”

***

A sickly heat.

Matt pushes himself into a sitting position. The fleece blanket falls from his shoulders. There’s a smell, and that heat, and a general wrongness about Foggy. His hand searches, finds his hair, his forehead. Palm against skin, back of hand against skin. Both ways tell him Foggy is too warm.

“Hey.” Bucky’s racing heartbeat from the other couch. Scared. “Um. Steve’s gone for his run. He should be back any minute now.”

Foggy isn’t stirring, but sometimes he can be a deep sleeper. And he had an eventful night last night, didn’t he? Yes. He thinks he remembers it.

Matt tilts his head. Foggy’s breathing is wrong. Too much stuff in his lungs that shouldn’t be there. What’s his temperature? Matt isn’t sure. It’s about three degrees higher than Matt’s own temperature, but he doesn’t know what that is.

He sits back on the couch, running a hand through his hair. His throat is too dry. His head hurts.

None of that matters, because Foggy is sick.

His senses focus on Bucky’s scared heartbeat. Why is he scared? He beckons him over with his hand. Maybe he can help Foggy.

Bucky’s heart races faster. “You want me to come over to you?”

Matt nods, waves him over again.

Bucky’s footsteps are hesitant. They walk around the coffee table, settle near Foggy’s head. Fabric against wood as he perches on the table. “What is it?”

He points to the side of Bucky that doesn’t sound like whirring machinery, then touches his palm to Foggy’s head again. This time Foggy stirs.

Foggy shuffles upright against the pillows. “What? Hey Matty, you’re up.”

Bucky clears his throat, sounding uncomfortable. “I think he wants me to touch your face.”

“What?”

“Your forehead,” Bucky says. “I think he wants me to touch your forehead.”

Foggy’s heart makes an odd pattern. Confused? “Matt, are you trying to make blind people things a fad? Because I hate to break it to you, but when people work out how long the face touching thing takes it’s never going to catch on.”

Matt rolls his eyes. Points toward Bucky’s hand, then Foggy’s forehead.

“Go for it,” Foggy says, voice casual. “Touch me.” A pause. “Wait that sounded-”

The cushion underneath Matt jumps as Foggy jerks forward into a wave of coughing. Matt’s hand finds his back, rubbing circles there like Foggy did. The fit lasts several seconds.

Foggy’s body collapses back against the pillows. “God I feel terrible.”

“Well this explains the forehead thing.” Impact of skin against skin as Bucky finally does as Matt asked. “Yup. You’ve got a fever. Hang on, I’ll get the med kit.”

“I can’t get sick,” Foggy says, sounding like he’s pouting. “I’ve got court tomorrow.”

“So you rest today,” Bucky’s voice says from the kitchen area. “Try to kick it.”

Foggy’s heart speeds up. “I can’t rest. Matt’s got a busy day today.”

Matt finds Foggy’s hand, squeezes.

“No guilt face Matt. Please no guilt face.This is nothing. I’ll stay off my feet, drink plenty of fluids. It’ll be fine.”

Bucky’s footsteps come back. Plastic against wood as he places the medical kit on the coffee table. A click of plastic. The smell of antiseptic. Rummaging noises. “Here. Hold this in your ear until it beeps.”

Foggy whistles. “That is one heck of a medical kit.”

“We have them in every room in the tower. Never hurts to be prepared with this kind of crowd.”

A beep.

Plastic against skin as Bucky takes it back. “100 degrees. Not too bad. Think you still deserve a day of rest though.”

“Promise.” A smile in Foggy’s voice. No smile in his heart. “I’ll rest as much as I can.”

Clicking of plastic as Bucky packs away the medical kit. His heart speeds up again. Nervous. “Hey Matt, did you want to help me make pancakes for everyone?”

Matt nods.

***

They make three different kinds of pancakes. Plain, chocolate chip, and blueberry. The chocolate chips are the good kind, so Matt tries to make a few more of that kind than he should while Bucky is distracted with his own pan. He doesn’t get away with it.

Bucky laughs. “Bit of a chocoholic aren’t you pal?”

“Only certain kinds,” Foggy calls from the couch. Where he is not allowed to move from. He’d gotten the message only after Matt had pushed him back on the couch twice. “He’s a total chocolate snob.”

“Me I’ll eat anything that tastes remotely like chocolate, additives and all.” Bucky flips his pancake in the air. He’s a total pro at flipping pancakes. “But I’ve got to admit Tony has great taste in chocolate. He never orders anything but the best. He bought these great boxes for us to share on Valentines day. He was planning on doing the same on easter Sunday, yesterday, but he got a little delayed ordering them so they haven’t come yet. When they do we’ll make a night of it.”

Matt hopes he didn’t forget to order them because of him. He flips his pancake out of the pan, not turning his head as it lands neatly on the stack he’s already made. Everyone’s planning on having breakfast but Natasha, who’s still out of the tower. That’s a lot of mouths to feed. He’s seen how much Steve and Bucky put away.

He puts down the pan for a moment to take another drink from his glass of water. He’s downed a lot since he woke this morning, but he still has that awful dehydration headache.

“Jesus Matt.” Bucky’s heart jumps. “If you’re that good at flipping pancakes, why are you sticking to the tame stuff?”

Matt shrugs, tips some more mix in his pan. He wants to make a blueberry one now. He’d neglected them while fixated on chocolate, and he does like blueberries too. If he makes enough of both then he can guarantee he gets to eat some before everyone else descends on them.

Bucky flips his pancake in the air, long exaggerated movements before it lands back in the pan.

Matt shakes the pan back and forth, considering. Then he flips it in the air. It stays up there for a long couple of seconds, before it lands neatly back in the pan, every blueberry accounted for.

A grin in Bucky’s voice. “It’s on.”

At first they compete for how many times they can get their pancake to turn in the air, then Bucky works out through Matt’s confused expressions that he can’t always tell how many times his pancake flips over. So they change to who can keep their pancake in the air the longest, with Jarvis timing. That works better. Until the inevitable:

“Aw crap.”

Matt’s pancake lands neatly in the pan. Bucky’s doesn’t. Bucky’s pancake doesn’t land at all.

Foggy laughs. “Oh I need to take a picture of this. Bucky Barnes scowling at the horrible ceiling that dares to steal his pancake.” A click.

The hum of the elevator.

“Hey pal, don’t burn that. It’s good pancake.” Metal against plastic. Bucky taps the handle of the pan.

Matt blinks a moment, caught in the crispness of the sound-waves coming from Bucky’s arm. Then he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing. He turns off the cooker, slides the last pancake onto one of the piled plates. It smells a little burnt, but it should be edible.

The elevator doors whoosh open. Two heartbeats. Sam and Steve.

“You know,” Bucky says. Feet still like he’s watching something. Maybe he’s still staring at the pancake on the ceiling. The pan is still in his flesh hand. Matt can feel the heat. “Technically this means my pancake was in the air the longest.”

Matt shakes his head. No cheating. Cheating is not allowed.

Steve’s footsteps stop by the breakfast bar. He chuckles. “Again Bucky?”

“Shut up Steve,” Bucky growls. “I had steep competition.”

Steve’s voice turns soft. “Matt, you and Bucky had a pancake flipping competition?”

Matt nods.

“Matt won the pancake flipping contest!” Foggy shouts from the couch.

Matt points toward Foggy, turns his face to Bucky, nods. Foggy’s right. He won.

Bucky sighs. “All right pal. You win this round.”

Matt smiles.

A strange stuttering from the heartbeats around him. Surprise? Why are they all surprised?

“It’s good to see you smile Matt,” Sam says quietly, as if he’d noticed his confusion.

Oh. He flushes.

Squeaking of metal as Steve sits on one of the stools behind the breakfast bar. “Why is Foggy still on the couch?”

“He’s got a slight fever,” Bucky says. “Matt’s keeping him on couch rest.”

A sound. Sort of slurping from the ceiling above Bucky. Then wilder. Object falling through air.

Instinctively Matt reaches out, pushing the handle of the pan Bucky holds to the right. A neat slap. The pancake lands in the pan.

Bucky’s heart hammers in his chest.

Scared? The only fear sweat is old, but it could take a second to reach Matt’s nose. Upset? No wet sound. Angry? No, Matt knows angry too well to miss it. But Matt did get into Bucky’s personal space without permission. He shouldn’t have done that.

Swallowing, Matt takes a couple steps back, turns his face to the floor. He doesn’t want to scare Bucky.

Steve’s breath hitches like he’s about to say something. Before he can Sam breaks in. “Bucky has the most awestruck expression on his face right now.”

Matt turns his face toward Sam’s. He frowns. Awestruck?

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice from the couch. He’s kneeling up to look over the side again. That is not couch rest. “Did you not recognise that emotion?”

Matt flushes, shakes his head.

“Well Murdock.” Bucky puts the pan down on the cooker, moves to pick up a couple of the plates. “This is me officially awestruck. You are hereby crowned king of the pancake.”

Steve gets up. Opening and closing of drawers. Rattling of cutlery. “I thought that was me?”

Matt grabs one of the stacks of pancakes, follows Bucky to the kitchen table. He sets it down away from where Bucky puts his.

“Nah.” Bucky moves aside to let Sam place the last stacks of pancakes on the table. “I won the title from you two weeks ago, remember?”

Foggy’s footsteps walk around the couch, to the table. His gait is a little uneven. Maybe a muscle cramp?

Matt frowns at him.

“Stop with the face Matt. A mild fever and a little coughing isn’t going to keep me away from delicious pancakes.” Foggy coughs as he lowers himself into the chair Matt pulls out.

Matt hovers until it stops.

Sam makes a pleased sound as he bites into a pancake. Chocolate, Matt thinks. “These are really good Matt.”

Bucky comes back to the table, arms full of various plastic things that smell like syrups. “Excuse me? Where’s my thanks?”

A smile in Steve’s voice. “Thank you Bucky. Thank you Matt.”

***

Matt fills his plate with blueberry and chocolate pancakes. He’s hungry. They’re good. And his stomach doesn’t complain except to demand more.

“Orange juice Matt?” Pepper asks.

Matt frowns, turns his face toward Foggy.

Luckily Foggy knows him. “Smooth or bits?”

“Smooth.”

Matt nods. Smooth is good. Bits are gross.

The movement of hair. Pepper running a hand through Bruce’s hair. “Coffee’s right in front of you. You’ll feel better.”

Bruce groans. “Sleep is. Sleep is-”

“Sleep is important. But you chose to let Tony goad you into staying up all night again, and you’re both due to do that presentation in an hour.”

Bruce huffs. The sound is muffled. Head in hands? “I regret so much.”

Clint hums happily to Bruce’s right. Sipping sounds. The stink of black coffee. “Coffee is good. Coffee is great.”

Bucky sits on Matt’s right. His body heat leans closer. “This is about all the sense you’ll get out of those two this early.”

The whoosh of the elevator doors. Tony’s fast footsteps. He makes his way to the seat between Pepper and Steve. “Ready for our awesome presentation Banner?”

Bruce whines. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Tony says dismissively. “Hey Murdock.”

Matt blinks.

“Oh right.” Tony sounds sheepish. “The blind thing. I’m holding something out to you. It’s yours. Don’t thank me. The pleasure is all mine. Yadah, yadah, yadah.”

Matt reaches out his hand. Plastic. Very smooth. He places it on the table in front of him and feels its outline. A curved band of plastic. Two smooth circles of plastic attached. Thick foam on the insides of the circles. Headphones. They feel expensive.

“No electronics,” Tony says. “I looked it up. No electronics in court. I’m hoping you’ll get away with these though. Try them on.”

It’s difficult to get them in place with one hand. Foggy ends up helping.

“Can you hear me?” Tony’s voice.

Matt nods.

“Wow.” There’s surprise in Tony’s voice. He should hear his heartbeat jump too, but there is no heartbeat. “Super super hearing. Do they cut down the other sounds at least?”

No heartbeats. No movement of air, or clothes, or hair. The humming of electricity is muffled. Matt nods.

“Good.” A pause. Maybe there’s a movement there or a change in heart-rate. Something he can’t pick up with these over his ears. “They’re stylish by the way. Bright red. They look like a really cool pair of headphones so you won’t get stares. Don’t use them if you don’t want to. But I figure this way you can cut out some of the noise if you want.”

Matt takes the headphones from his ears. He doesn’t know what to say. A part of him wants to give them back. It’s not like he’s earned them. But another part knows that when court comes he might need them.

“Thank you,” Foggy says for him.

Matt nods.

***

Foggy is sick, so Matt doesn’t quite blow up at him when he says Olivia wants him to choose where he’d be most comfortable talking to her, but it’s a close thing.

Matt sits with his knees drawn to his chest as Foggy gives him options. All the options are OK, and all of them are terrible because they are options. They require a choice, and he doesn’t want to choose. Eventually Foggy says maybe he should try this in one of the rooms on the communal floor because he’s most comfortable there. Matt nods, then has to control his breathing to make sure he doesn’t fall into a panic attack because he’s made a choice, and what if it’s the wrong choice.

Olivia is as nice as he remembers.

They sit down in the office across from the bathroom on the communal floor. There’s a long round table for people to gather around. Matt sits one side. Olivia sits the other.

She sets many of the same rules as before. He can leave if he wants. She’ll wait here for her hour, then she’ll leave. He can take a break. He can have anyone in the room with him he wants. Matt chooses to go in alone. He’s still afraid of what Foggy might think of him if he finds out what happened. He doesn’t know how much Foggy already knows.

He gets up the right word document on the laptop, then hands it to her. He tugs his sleeve over his hand as he waits, fiddling with the edges.

“This is good Matt,” she says once she’s done reading the descriptions. “Do you mind if I make a copy?”

He shakes his head.

“I have the sequence of events you started with Detective Kelly. Is it OK if I read them to you?”

Matt nods.

It’s not so bad. It ends at the second hit. For some reason he’d thought he’d said more.

“What I’d like to do is start with your memory of what happened. You can add emotions, that might help you remember it better. It may be a bit of a jumble to start with. That’s fine. After we’ve gone through it from start to finish we’ll go back and I’ll ask a few questions to iron out details. For now though I just want you to tell me in your own words what happened.”

Matt reaches for the braille keyboard. He’d prepared for this. He can do this. Olivia’s presence is honey, a voice that always sounds like it’s smiling, a strong second heartbeat from her abdomen. She only moves when she absolutely has to, and when she does they’re slow and easy to follow. Her voice and words say no judgements.

After the second hit, what happened? ‘There was a noise. A cat I think. I must have gotten distracted. The second one I described. He swung a baseball bat. It hit my head. I fell down.’

There are emotions, but they’re dull. He’s doing good. This is going much better than he expected. He can do this. Maybe he can get this all done in one go. That’s what usually happens. Most people don’t need to space it out.

‘I don’t know if I was knocked out. I was disorientated. They were kicking me. I protected my face. The armour protected some of the rest of me. I kept almost getting up. They used their feet and the baseball bat. Kept me down. They yelled things. They were angry. I’d hit a friend of theirs a week earlier. Broke his arm and nose. Called him Josh. He’d been hitting his girlfriend. I stopped him.’

“Can you give me the date and address of that?” Olivia asks.

Matt gives the date and address of where he’d stopped the man hitting his girlfriend. He can do this. This part can be over. He can say he’d done everything he could to get them behind bars. They wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

“Thank you Matt. Can you tell me what happened next?”

‘The armour hurt their feet. They couldn’t do much damage even with the baseball bat. They held me down. Took off my mask. Found the-” found the zip. Found the zip. It took them a while. One of them had used a knife to try and cut it off. He’d been so close to getting that knife. If he’d had a little more time for his head to clear, he wouldn’t have missed his lunge for it. Maybe he should’ve stopped fighting for a moment. Lulled him closer before trying for it. But they had his mask off, and he’d needed to put an end to this fight quickly.

“Matt?”

There were so many opportunities to stop it before it started. Why didn’t he take them? What’s so wrong with him that he missed them all?

“Matty. Come on buddy. You’re OK Can you nod your head?”

Foggy’s voice. Foggy’s heartbeat thrumming down his hand.

Matt takes a breath. It shakes in his lungs. He’s sitting, his knees drawn up to his chest. Around him is the scent of leather. That wasn’t there before.

Foggy’s thumb moves back and forth over the back of his hand. “Matt? Are you with me yet?”

Matt opens his mouth, closes it. There are words. He can feel them starting to form in his head. He can’t remember how to make them leave his throat.

“You’re OK buddy.”

Matt shakes his head. He’s not OK. He was talking with Olivia. There was a wooden chair underneath him. A wooden table in front of him. Now there’s just leather. There wasn’t any leather in the room. How can there be leather?

“There you are. You’re safe. You’re in Avengers tower. In the communal lounge. It’s me and Bucky here.” Relief in Foggy’s voice.

Matt moves his hand slowly, not wanting to dislodge Foggy’s heartbeat. His fingertips brush the leather underneath him. The couch. It is the couch. And there’s more leather behind him. He’s pressed back into his usual corner.

“Matt? Do you know where you are?” A route quality to the question, like Foggy’s asked this before.

“Communal lounge. Bucky. Foggy,” he repeats. The words taste dull on his tongue. They don’t make sense. None of this makes sense.

Foggy’s heartbeat speeds up. “Matt? Are you really with me right now?”

He was talking to Olivia, wasn’t he? They were just talking?

“Buddy. Can you try sensing your surroundings? See how many objects you can name around you?”

“Wood polish.” It comes out as a whine. This doesn’t make sense. He needs it to make sense. “Table. No corners. Round. Plastic under fingers. Humming. Honey.” That’s it. That’s what he wants to ask about. “Honey.”

“Try again Matt. This time try and translate it from Matt speech.”

Matt grits his teeth. His head is a jumble of sounds and smells. And this is important. Because he was there. And now he’s not there. Which means he moved. What if he did something other than moving? What if he broke something again? What if he broke someone? “Honey. Slow. Smile in…voice. In voice. Heartbeat. Second heartbeat.”

“Olivia?” Foggy’s hand tightens over his. “Are you talking about Olivia?”

He nods. There’s a question. Why is it so difficult to find the words? “Is she? Did I break?”

“Christ no Matty. You didn’t hurt her. You wouldn’t hurt her.” Foggy’s heart hammers fast. “She said you froze for about five minutes. Didn’t respond to her. Then you got up, came out here and sat down. You’ve been out here for about twenty minutes. That’s it. No breaking. Just sitting quietly. Olivia is waiting in the room until the hours up like she said. She’ll leave the tower in about ten minutes.”

Twenty minutes? He’s been sitting here that long? Trembles start in his arm, before spreading over the rest of him. “I don’t - I don’t remem-”

“I know buddy. Listen, I’m going to sit next to you until this passes. Is that OK?”

Matt’s not sure whether he answers. Foggy’s warmth appears at his side anyway. An arm wraps around his back, pulling him close. His head knocks into Foggy’s shoulder. He can’t stop shaking.

“Come on bud. Let’s see what else we can sense around the room.”

***

They play a game. Foggy names the direction and paces to an object. Matt needs to sense or remember what’s there. At first the only words that come out of his mouth are smells, sounds, or remembered sensations. Eventually he gets faster at pulling them together and coming up with the object’s name. Olivia leaves quietly while they’re in the middle of it. Sometime after that Matt becomes aware of the sound of Bucky’s heart beating from the other couch, the noise of paper against paper as he turns the pages of his book.

It’s ironic that the moment his senses return enough to produce coherent sentences is also the moment he becomes self aware enough to stop talking.

The elevator doors whoosh open. Two footsteps whoosh out. One set careless, but not as fast as usual. The other shuffling more than they usually do.

“Breathe big guy.” Tony’s voice. “It went great. They loved it. They loved you.”

A muffled scream. Bruce’s heart-rate is higher than usual, but not anywhere near what a normal anxious person’s is. It is a little surprising that Bucky and Tony’s hearts show no distress at being in the same room as a stressed out hulk.

“Ice cream?” Tony asks, already walking over to the kitchen area.

Movement as Bruce’s arms fall by his sides. “Blueberry.”

“You have great taste.” The freezer opens, closes. The clink of cutlery. “I got some new puzzles if you’re interested. Braille so Murdock can join in.”

Bruce’s footsteps shuffle out of the room. “You really think they liked it?”

“Are you kidding? They’d be mad not to. You’re basically curing cancer. And you got an applause, didn’t you?” Shutting of the freezer as Tony puts the ice cream back. His footsteps walk over to one of the armchairs. Ceramic against fabric as he puts a bowl down in a chair. A creak as he flops in the other chair.

Bruce’s shuffling footsteps walk back into the room. His arms smell like cardboard. Cardboard against wood as he sets the box on the coffee table. “You were half my applause. And as far as I know it’ll only work on certain types of cancer, and that’s if I get the funding to try it.”

“I am a enthusiastic applauder. Even if I was surrounded by thousands of preteen girls and Justin Beiber was in front of us I would be half the applause. If I liked the creepy little guy. Or if the hulk bopped him on the head. Then I would be more than half the applause. And you will get the funding. I’ll fund you myself if I need to.”

“Wait.” Foggy shifts on the sofa beside Matt. “Bruce is curing cancer? Why have I not heard of this? All the newspapers seems to talk about is which buildings you’ve knocked down, and who has the best butt.”

“Hmm,” Tony says around a mouthful of what smells cold and blueberry. “I say Steve.”

Bucky makes throwing up sounds.

Bruce chuckles. A cascade of cardboard against wood as he tips the box out. “I think the press just likes to focus on the hulk instead of Bruce Banner. Pepper’s helped a lot though. I wouldn’t have had this presentation taken seriously if it wasn’t for her.”

Fabric against carpet as Tony gets to the floor. “You’d have a better image if you didn’t keep turning down interviews.”

Foggy’s phone beeps. He shifts away from Matt, fabric rustling as he searches his pockets. Skin against plastic as he takes it out. His heart spikes. “Crap.”

Bucky’s voice. Wary. “What is it?”

“Something I thought I’d have a couple more hours to prepare for.” The cushion beneath Matt moves as Foggy twists. Foggy’s hand grips his. “Matt. That was Marci. She texted me an hour ago and said she was coming by today and that she was going to help represent you. I figured I’d have a little longer to talk about it with you, but she’s downstairs now. Do we let her up, or do we not?”

Matt presses his body back into the corner of the couch. The question sets his teeth on edge. His body tenses.

Tony’s voice. “Do you want us to fuck off?”

Movement of hair. Foggy runs his fingers through his. “Maybe for a minute. Sorry.”

“No problem.” Bruce moves to grab his ice cream before walking out of the room. “Call us if you need us.”

Their footsteps leave.

Foggy’s thumb rubs over the back of his hand. “Take a deep breath for me buddy. Can you do that?”

Matt takes a breath, then another when the first isn’t deep enough. Cold rushes through his body. Pins and needles run down his arms and legs. He used to be able to make decisions like this before, didn’t he? He must have. So why does this seem so impossible?

“You have two choices buddy.”

Matt shakes his head. No choices. He doesn’t want any. What if he makes the wrong one?

“Shh. Just listen to me Matty. Just listen. Choice one, we leave that harpy down there. I know you don’t get along. She won’t help with the case. She’ll stay away if I tell her enough times. Choice two, she comes up here. You can decide where she goes and doesn’t go, how long she stays for. She’ll help with the case. She’s a good lawyer, and deep down she’s a good person. Really deep down. It doesn’t matter which you choose. I just need you to choose one.”

Matt jerks away from Foggy, flips over the side of the armchair onto the floor. His heart hammers so hard in his chest that he rubs at it to try and calm it down. His feet pace.

Foggy’s feet move around the couch. They’re still uneven. That muscle cramp from earlier? No. That should be gone now. But he is limping. He’s definitely limping. “I can’t choose who your lawyers are going to be Matt. It’s not my choice to make.”

Matt shakes his head. His feet pace. He doesn’t know where. Maybe nowhere. Back and forth. Around in circles. He runs a hand over his hair. It doesn’t help.

“Stop and breathe for a moment buddy.” Foggy has a limp. He didn’t have a limp yesterday. But last night after his whatever it was when Foggy helped him drink. Foggy was there, then Foggy was further away, then Foggy had a limp. “We can make this decision together. OK? We can go over the options again and see which you’re more comfortable with.”

Another shake. His breath is too tight. There are windows, but they’re too solid. He doesn’t know if they open. And if they did they’re too high up. The only way out is the elevator, and Jarvis controls those. The iPod fell off the coffee table. Something knocked it off. Something was thrown across the coffee table and knocked it off.

“Matty. Come sit down.” Pleading in Foggy’s voice.

Matt shakes his head. There was a pain in his hand right after whatever happened with the coffee table. Like he’d pushed something. The sound of fabric sliding over wood. The impact of flesh on wood. Foggy was right next to him, then he was across the room. Foggy sounded pained. Foggy has a limp.

He pushed Foggy. Oh God. He pushed Foggy across the room. He hurt Foggy.

His pacing knocks him against one of the kitchen chairs. The jolt is more shock than hurt. He hadn’t noticed it. He hates it.

His hand picks up the chair by its back, heaves it over his head. Fire lights up over his shoulder, trailing down to cover his ribs. He doesn’t mind the pain.

“Matt!”

Another chair. This one he aims at the cooker where he’d goofed off with Bucky, where he’d smiled. He hit his friend. He can’t make a simple statement. He can’t make a simple choice. He doesn’t deserve that smile.

“Matthew! Stop!”

He hesitates, then picks up another chair. This one flies at the faint sound of wind blowing against glass. The giant window by the kitchen area. His heart hammers so hard in his ears that he’s not sure if it breaks.

Arms around him, pinning his to his side. A chest against his. Foggy’s heartbeat thrums through him. It’s supposed to help. It doesn’t. He hurt Foggy. The clawing inside his chest isn’t a clawing anymore. It’s a burning. It eats him from the inside out. He needs to make it stop. “Matty. Matty. Stop. OK. I need you to stop.”

Matt shrugs out of Foggy’s hold. It’s not like it’s difficult. He knows how to move quickly, to angle his wrist to slip out of his grip. There’s another chair. There has to be. He walks into it more than finds it. Heaves it up by the back.

Body heat in front of him. Foggy’s voice. The smell of salt in the air. “Matt if you’re going to keep throwing things I’m going to keep trying to stop you. And yeah. I’m no superhero. So maybe I can’t stop you. But I’m going to damn well keep trying, and failing, and probably getting hurt. You don’t want to hurt me, do you bud?”

His hand twitches around the chair. He doesn’t want to hurt Foggy.

“I swear to God Murdock. You throw that chair I’ll do my best to get in front of it. And given how goddamn disorientated you are, I’ll probably succeed. Then you’ll be guilt faced and I’ll be - I don’t know - covered in splinters or something. So do us both a favour and put that chair down right now!”

The chair falls to the ground. It makes a snapping sound as it lands on the wooden floor.

“Good job Matty. Just breathe. I get the message. No decisions. Really really no decisions.” Wet in his voice. A lot of wet. “I’m coming closer, OK? Can I take your hand?”

Matt shakes his head, holds his trembling hand closer to his side.

“OK. OK. Where do you want to go? No. No. Forget that. No decisions. I got it. We’re going to go sit on the couch. Is that OK?” Foggy’s heartbeat is high. Scared. Upset too he thinks.

Matt shakes his head. He doesn’t deserve the couch.

“You don’t make this easy, do you Murdock?” Foggy’s voice is too high pitched. “OK. How’s this. Unless you have something else planned, we both stand here for a while and focus on breathing. Is that OK?”

Matt’s feet pace. His muscles are too tense. There are other heartbeats in the room.

“Matt! Matt. Sit down buddy. It doesn’t matter where. Just sit down somewhere, please.” Alarmed. That’s a good word for Foggy’s voice. He’s scared to the point of sounding hysterical. Matt did that.

He should sit down. Somewhere away from Foggy. The smaller couch is against the wall, but there’s enough space behind it for him to fit. He slides into the space, ignoring the other heartbeats. He sits on the ground, back to the wall, knees pressed to his chest. Just enough room around him not to be too uncomfortable. Escape routes above him and to both sides. Not as open as he likes, but that’s the point. He needs to make it difficult for Foggy to get close to him.

Foggy’s heartbeat moves around the couch to his right. Every limping footstep is a stab to his heart. Fabric shifting. He kneels down on the right side of the couch. “This is good buddy. This will work. Can I get in there with you?”

Matt shakes his head.

“Probably a good thing.” False cheer in Foggy’s voice. “I’m not sure I’d fit. I’m not as scrawny as you Murdock. OK. I’ll stay here and you can breathe, OK? Just try and follow my breathing. Nice and slow.”

Foggy’s heart stays too fast, but he slows his breathing down. Matt tries to slow his too, but it’s difficult. There’s a spot of slightly too hot on Foggy’s left calf. A bruise he thinks. It’d have to be a bad one if it’s still making him limp.

“Christ Matty.” It comes out as a sob. “Please don’t do that. Please stop.”

Stop what?

The couch jerks forward on his left. Warmth as someone slides next to him. The back of his head whacks against the bones of a hand. Once. Twice. Oh. He was banging his head against the wall. That’s why Foggy wanted him to stop.

“Can’t let you hit your head pal.” Bucky’s voice. Bucky’s heart next to him. “Gonna need a cushion Tony.”

It’s hard to stop. It’s soothing like rocking, but the rhythm is easier to find. Something soft replaces Bucky’s hand. Matt slams his head into it twice before giving up. It’s not the same. His body wavers back and forth, back and forth. Not quite rocking, but almost.

Foggy’s heartbeat moves to Bucky’s side of the couch.

“Matt. Gonna let Foggy come sit here, OK?” Bucky’s heart isn’t calm, but it’s a lot steadier than Foggy’s.

Matt shakes his head.

Bucky’s voice. Cautious. “You don’t want Foggy?”

Another shake. He hurt Foggy. Foggy should stay away from him.

Foggy’s breath. Wet. Upset.

“OK pal. But I’m gonna stay here a little while. Just until I’m sure you don’t need this cushion again.”

Matt presses his face into his knees.

“We’re going to sit here and breathe. In for five, out for five.”

Bucky counts the breaths, keeping his long and slow. At first Matt only makes it to two, then he gets caught on three for a while before the fleece blanket finds its way across his knees. That helps. He gets to five a couple of times while rubbing a fist over the soft material before he realises what he’s doing.

He pushes the blanket away.

Sounds around from the kitchen area. Tony chatting idly to Bruce above the sound of wood scraping. Cleaning up the mess Matt made. Foggy’s heartbeat is there, still fast and upset. He’s ill. He shouldn’t be working.

“I know you like that blanket,” Bucky says, tone almost casual. “So what is this? Some Catholic self denial? Foggy said you could get like that. This why you don’t want Foggy around? Trying to punish yourself for something?”

Matt wraps an arm around his legs, grips the bottom of his sweatpants, hates himself for not being able to stop seeking comfort even when he doesn’t deserve it.

Bucky’s voice, soft. “What do you think you need to be punished for? ‘Cause that thing out there, dramatic sure. But you should’ve seen me in months two and three of my recovery. Probably some of four and five too. It’s a process and you’ll get through it. But the only way you get through it is by communicating what’s going on in your head. You bottle things up, they’ll only get worse. Take it from me.”

Matt rests his forehead on his knees. He doesn’t reach for the blanket.

A vibration along the wall as Bucky leans his head back against it. “It’s like an infected wound. For it to get better you need to get that pus out. And that hurts like hell, but that wound isn’t going to ever heal without doing that. If you keep things to yourself you’re not going to get better Murdock. You’re going to keep having meltdowns. They’re never going to stop. And they’ll probably get worse. You start getting some of that shit out of you, then it’ll probably get worse for a bit, but then it’ll get better.

“Me. My last decent sized episode was over four months ago. I get little things every now and again, and God I get angry at times, but I’m in control. I know how to ground myself quickly, how to channel it, and how to talk about it so it’s less likely to happen again. Me, Steve, and Sam talk about our feelings more than your average teenage girl, and it works. So my question to you Murdock is, do you want to get better?”

Matt nods against his knees. His hand clenches around his sweatpants hard enough to hurt.

Movement of fabric. Bucky leans forward. “Why don’t you want Foggy here?”

Matt’s heart hammers in his chest. Bucky should know, shouldn’t he? Bucky was there. But it still feels like he’s admitting some sickening crime that Bucky will be horrified by when he unclenches his hand from his sweatpants and points at his left calf. “Fog.”

A sigh. “You figured out how Foggy hurt his leg.”

There’s no need to nod. Matt wraps his arm back around his legs.

“My second month in, Steve startled me from behind and I broke his arm.” There’s emotion in the words, but not fresh, like he’s talked about this before. “It was during a flashback. I wasn’t in control of my actions at the time. It wasn’t my fault. ‘Course I didn’t understand that at the time. I felt like the worst person in all of creation. Tried my best to distance myself from Stevie so I couldn’t hurt him again. And you know what? Cutting myself off from him, it hurt him more than anything else I ever could’ve done. You think of how Foggy’s going to feel if you don’t let him help you?”

Matt blinks. He hadn’t thought of that. But at least Foggy would be safe, wouldn’t he?

Movement in the air. Some kind of gesture. “How would you feel if Foggy was hurting and he wouldn’t let you help him?”

Matt’s hand tightens around his sweatpants.

“’Cause I hate to break it to you pal. But you and I both know emotional pain can hurt a heck of a lot more than physical pain. And right now Foggy is hurting more because he can’t be here for you than he is over any bruise. You may think you’re saving him, but all you’re doing is hurting him.”

Matt’s lungs are too tight. His shoulder burns.

“A flashback is like instinct. You’re going to get some that trigger knee jerk reactions you have no control over. Foggy understands that. Everyone understands that. What happened to Foggy wasn’t your fault. Even if you turned back the clock you couldn’t stop it from happening, because you were not in control at the time. So what you’ve got to do is help us help you move forward so less and less of this stuff happens. Got that?”

Matt takes a breath. It tastes wet. He nods, forcing the prickling behind his eyes away.

“What number are we on on that scale of yours?”

It takes a while to unclench his hand from his sweatpants. He holds up four shaking fingers.

“OK. Pick up that blanket. Breathe with me, and we’ll see if we can get it down to three.”

Matt picks up the blanket.


	15. Chapter 15

Fiona gets Foggy to pass him a Styrofoam cup.

Matt's never been too fond of confined spaces. He's not scared of them. And it's not all confined spaces. There are times when the only place he can breathe is under his heavy duvet, blocking out the air currents around him. But if someone attacks him while he's under his duvet he can move. He has multiple exits. Behind the couch it would be easy to trap him.

So he's not quite sure why he's still sitting behind the couch, except that it's easier to keep Foggy out there, away from him.

"People usually use pictures to demonstrate this concept, but I prefer a more hands on approach, and I think this'll work better for you," Fiona says from in front of the couch. He was surprised when she decided to come to him for his therapy instead of insisting he moved. He's even more surprised and grateful that she stays at the front of the couch where she can't see him, leaving all his exits open except for the one blocked by Foggy.

He turns the Styrofoam over in his hands. He hates the material. Stinking of chemicals, and way too easy to make that horrible squealing sound when it's rubbed.

"That cup is how lucky people start their day." The brush of carpet against fabric as Fiona settles on the floor. "And I'm not talking about coffee. That cup is how much stress a person can take. Everyone has a different reaction when their cup overflows. Some get violent, some cry, have panic attacks, or dissociate. Feel inside. A lot of space to go, right? That is how much space your most well rested, well adjusted person has when first waking up in the morning. Of course it doesn't stay like that."

Maybe some kind of gesture? It's hard to tell through the couch.

"Here Matty." Foggy passes him something. Smooth. Wooden. Smells like paint. A circle about the same shape as the bottom of the cup. "Put that in the cup."

He does, pushing it to to bottom.

"A lot of people assume everyday things like taking a shower, or brushing teeth don't add stress. They do. This is about how much room for stress your average person has left on a decent day. Feel how much space there is until it overflows. A lot, right?"

Matt feels the inside with his fingers. Most of the cup is empty.

Another wooden circle handed to him. This one is thicker. When he pushes it in the cup only half of it is empty space.

"This is how much space for added stress your person having a bad day has. They've missed the train for work. Their boss yelled at them. They've been given too high a workload. A lot of bad stress. Like having to go to court. It takes up more of their reserves than your guy who only has the good stress to deal with, but there's still a decent amount of room left before it overflows. They'll be quicker to get to overflowing point than the guy with only good stress, but they've got a good chance of making it."

Another wooden circle. This one even thicker. When he pushes this one into the cup the space left is about the height of his pinkie nail.

"And this is how much space for added stress someone with PTSD has. This is why things you may have been able to deal with before quickly send you into overflow mode. You don't have as much space as you had. Your brain can't take it, so it finds a way to release tension. It's a completely normal and natural reaction. This is also why sometimes everyday things like getting up in the morning seem so impossible. Everyday things don't add as much stress as bad events, but they do add stress. Your body recognises that, and protects you from it."

Matt takes a breath. He thinks she tried explaining something like this before, but he hadn't really understood it then. Holding the cup with its tiny bit of empty space in his hands he understands.

"I don't want you to think of PTSD as having a cure. That's too clear cut. It sounds too easy, and this isn't going to be easy or quick. But there are treatments. Our eventual aim is to chip away at all the triggers and symptoms that make up your PTSD. To try and break as much of it down as we can to clear up more space in that cup. Do you understand?"

Matt nods, hands the cup back to Foggy. It's nice to have a goal to aim for. To know there are ways of getting back in control.

Foggy narrates the nod. His heart still beats too fast. Nervous.

"Good Matt. We're very early into the process now." Shuffling as she puts the cup and circles back in her bag. "We need to focus on documentation. Finding out what your triggers are. Sometimes you may not know. It may take a few times to spot what the trigger is. Or it may be a build up of stress rather than a direct trigger that's the cause. Our aim to start with will be avoiding those triggers to keep your stress levels as low as we can. Eventually we'll tackle the triggers one at a time, systematically desensitise you to the ones we think we need to get rid of. That does mean that your next homework is to start recording in some way what you think is triggering you, and anything you feel able to record about the contents of your flashbacks."

His hand grips tight around the fleece blanket. The idea of putting the contents of his flashbacks where someone could see them makes his skin crawl.

Foggy must make some kind of expression because Fiona speaks again.

"Matt. We need to know about the triggers to be able to keep as many of them out of your environment as we can. But if you don't feel like sharing them, then the flashbacks can be just for you for now. You can record them in a place no one sees them. That's fine. Don't push yourself to write them down if you really feel you can't. But if you can then it will help."

Get the pus out. That's what Bucky said. And Bucky did get better.

Foggy's voice. Wet. "Matty."

Warmth as Foggy squeezes behind the couch to kneel next to him. Softness as the cushion is placed behind his head.

Oh. Banging his head again. He hadn't noticed.

"I know it doesn't seem like it but you are making progress." Fiona sounds so sure. No lie in her heart. "The flashbacks are a good sign. There's some evidence to suggest that PTSD occurs when traumatic memories are stored in a different way than usual, to protect the survivor. When the brain feels it's safe enough to do so it starts presenting those memories again so they can be processed and stored more effectively. This may take several repetitions until you’re able to digest the information. Hence why writing it down or telling someone about it can help. Your brain is already starting the healing process. Our job is to help that process continue as safely and effectively as possible."

His head stills against the cushion. Foggy's breath is too wet. He can't tell how much is sickness and how much is upset.

Foggy is so close, but he doesn't touch him. "What about the choices thing. Is that about the cup? Is it just too much stress to take?"

"Partly," Fiona says. "Difficulty making choices is very common in PTSD. When we go through a traumatic event our brain switches to fight or flight mode. If say, a car was heading straight for you, you wouldn't have time to weigh up options, you'd just react. Afterwards it can be difficult to fully switch out of that mode. Add to that that survivors often over-analyse their decisions made before and during a traumatic event, and you get a hotbed of difficulty breaking down the decision making process, and anxiety over making the wrong choice."

Matt's not sure whether he likes having therapy up here. Forty minutes seems much longer when you're not getting constantly stuck in conversations going on in the floors above and below you. There's no one on the floor but them. Nothing from the ceiling or floor but that constant hum of electricity.

Foggy's heat leeches into him. Movement in the air as his hand hovers over Matt's. He doesn't touch. "How can I help?"

"Judge his mood. Let him build his tolerance through little choices, limiting options if you need to. Keep the big choices to the bare minimum for now. When he needs to make one, give him lots of time. Give him as few options as possible. Try to re-frame his thinking. Humans tend to assume there's a right option and a wrong one. Instead try to frame it as two equally right choices with different benefits to be had. Try to break it down. Write down the different benefits for him to read over."

"Right." Foggy's hand falls back to his side. "I can do that."

***

Matt runs his finger over the braille list. Three side by side lines of benefits. A choice between them.

No. Not a choice. Not a decision. Foggy said to view it like goodies. Each option is a bag of goodies. He can take whichever one. It doesn't matter which because all three are good. All three are right.

He doesn't believe that. He pushes the clipboard away.

"Hey. It's OK." Foggy sits beside him on the couch, back resting against the armrest, and feet in front of him. "You don’t need to decide this yet. Just read over the material. Get an idea.”

Three options. He continues to do this without medication, he tries an antidepressant, or he tries an antidepressant and allows them to give him a sedative to get through really bad attacks.

Fiona had looked at his records to see what tranquilliser he’d reacted so badly to as a child. Valium. She thinks his reaction was due to being given too high a dose, but said Valium wasn’t an option for him anyway as it might make his depressive symptoms worse. No sedative is good to use with depressive symptoms, but Valium is one of the worst.

He’s skimmed through the material. Details of an antidepressant she thinks should be a good match for him. It’s also a anti-anxiety drug and recommended for use with PTSD. A perfect fit. Except if he takes it, it will take anywhere from two to eight weeks for it to start working, and until then there’s a chance it might make his anxiety worse. But once it kicks in it should help a lot if he doesn’t end up having a bad reaction to it. Foggy wants him to take it.

Then there’s the sedative. Only to be used in situations where he could be a danger to himself or others. Only as a last resort if every other method fails. And only to be used if he chooses to go on the antidepressant so the goal is always to move onto a medication better for his needs. Fiona is as wary of him taking sedatives as he is.

That should make him agree, shouldn’t it? The antidepressant will help him become more stable. And the sedative will only be used as a last resort. So he should pick both of them, shouldn’t he? But what if the sedative affects his focus as badly as last time? What if he reacts badly to the antidepressant and loses it even more?

What if he doesn’t make a choice right now, and that turns out to be the wrong choice? What if he doesn’t take the antidepressants, then two weeks from now when he could’ve been fine he hurts someone again?

The clipboard is pulled gently from his lap. “Let’s forget this for now. Breathe, OK buddy? Just breathe.”

He leans the back of his head against the corner of the couch and tries to remember how.

Plastic against wood as the clipboard is set on the coffee table. Foggy’s heartbeat is a little slower since he’d managed to persuade Matt to come out from behind the couch, but it’s still too fast. “It might help if you let me know what you’re thinking.”

Matt opens and closes his mouth several times before the words come. “Too much.”

A dry chuckle from Foggy that turned into a coughing fit. “Yeah,” he says once it’s over. “I figured.”

His shoulder still burns. His ribs complain too. He’s betting that throwing chairs isn’t on the list of approved things to do when you’ve got a shoulder blade injury. Even when it’s the opposite arm you’re using. “I know I’m not supposed to say. But I am Foggy. I’m really sorry.”

“Matty it’s fine.” Exasperation in Foggy’s voice. “I’m fine. This cold is bothering me way more than the little bruise on my leg. And it’s partly my fault anyway. I mean, I think it was something I said. But I was all up in your space as well. I. It’s hard to know how far to push you when you don’t talk to me. I get that touch grounds you, and you know I’m a hugger. By God I will hug you every second of every day if it will help you feel better. But before I just kind of pounced when you were looking too kicked puppy for my heart to take. Now I realise that won’t fly, so I’m trying to find where the boundaries are.”

Matt leans the side of his head against the back of the couch. His muscles are still too tense. There are choices floating around in his head. Court tomorrow with Foggy and Marci. His ears pick up too much empty space around the table where the chairs were. “Maybe we shouldn’t do that. Maybe we should stay away from each other.”

“Matt.” Foggy shifts down on the couch until his head is on the armrest, legs over the cushions. “I’m raising an eyebrow at you skeptically. We are sharing a couch cushion.”

“Because you took the best couch cushion.”

The sound of leather against hair as Foggy nods his head. “It is pretty cushy. I see why you like it. Matt. Serious talk. If you don’t want me to touch you, I won’t touch you. But you’re all huddled up in that corner. Your hand’s kneading that blanket that way you do when you’re trying not to reach out. Your face is kicked puppy times a thousand. I’m saying that if you need a hug, or a hand, or anything, you only need to ask.”

Matt tries to get his hand to let go of the blanket. It takes a few seconds. “I shouldn’t need it.”

“Dude.” Humour in Foggy’s voice. “Rolling my eyes at you. It’s 2016. Real men hug. And you’ve never had an issue with it before.”

“I don’t have a problem with hugs. I like your hugs. I like your heartbeat. But before, I didn’t need it. I shouldn’t need it. It’s not fair to you.”

“Whoa. Whoa.” Some kind of gesture. “Time out. You do know I’m a Nelson, right? Hugs are what we do best. It’s in our blood. Did I tell you about my great great uncle Jerry?”

Only about a million times.

“One cold cold winter’s evening he heard screaming down by a lake near his cabin. A little boy had fallen in. His older sister had dragged him out of the water but he wasn’t breathing. They’d heard the lake was great for skating and snuck out of their parent’s house to find it. No one else was around for miles. So my uncle brought them to his cabin, lit a fire and hugged the kid back to life. The sister said it was a miracle, that the boy had been under the water at least twenty minutes before she found him. Then my uncle put his arms around him and he slowly came back to life. He was famous for it for a while. People would travel to get one of his hugs in case it could heal whatever was ailing them. The sister ended up marrying him, and her family was loaded, so it was all a happy ending. My family legend is based on hugs Murdock. Don’t make me disappoint my ancestors.”

Matt sighs, but he folds up the fleece blanket, setting the pile next to Foggy. He leans back on it, careful to keep his weight off his right shoulder blade. His forehead rests against Foggy’s arm. Foggy’s heartbeat thrums through his skin. It’s familiar. Foggy’s scent is home. It has been ever since that first year they shared a room.

“So,” Foggy says, voice casual. “Anything you don’t want me doing hug-wise? I kind of need to know dos and don’t here. And it might help us know what to put on your list.”

Matt blinks slowly. The tension leeches from his body with every beat of Foggy’s heart. “List?”

“Oh right. Shit. I forgot to mention that. We’ve been making a list. Like the lists Bucky and the others have. You know, never, sometimes, always OK. I meant to go through it with you. See what you could add.”

Matt’s not sure what to think about everyone analysing his behaviour like that. “What’s on it?”

“Just things that you don’t seem to like. No categories yet. Let’s see. There’s ‘standing over me.’ ‘Mentioning the event, even in passing.’ ‘Forcing me to speak.’ ‘Gripping limbs.’ ‘Standing inside my personal space bubble unless you’re Foggy.’ ‘Sudden noises.’ ‘Noises outside the tower.’ ‘Movies where the bad guy wins.’ ‘Movies where the bad guy is too violent with the innocent.’ I guess I need to add ‘ask me to make decisions.’ Oh, and you’ve got a trigger word. Which I’m not going to mention, because, you know, triggering.”

It’s strange to hear it laid out so calmly. “I shouldn’t need a rule book.”

“Murdock.” Fondness in Foggy’s voice. “You always needed a rule book. Now there’s just a few more rules. Some that I’m betting I still don’t know, which is the thing I’m most worried about right now.”

Matt presses his head a little harder onto Foggy’s arm.

“Come on Matty, give me something.” Foggy shifts next to him. “Just one thing?”

Matt lets out the breath he’s holding. “I don’t like it when you touch my legs.”

“Consider it put on the list.” A smile in Foggy’s voice. “Thanks for telling me buddy.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so difficult.”

“Matt. You are wonderful, and amazing, and yes a little difficult, but it’s not like that’s anything new. Now why don’t you do that meditating thing for a while. It’s been an eventful day, and I’m hoping that if you rest we can avoid that zombie routine that usually happens on your eventful days.”

***

He must fall asleep part way through meditating because the next thing he knows is Foggy is gone from his side and there are more heartbeats in the room.

Bucky’s voice. “Hey Hawkass. Keep to your own side.”

“But my piece fits your side. Look,” Clint whines.

“Then give it to me and stick to your damn side of the puzzle.”

Shuffling near the coffee table. They sit on the opposite side of it from Matt.

“Children.” Foggy’s voice from the kitchen table behind the couch. “Don’t make me come over there.”

A giggle next to Foggy. Female. Karen.

“Matt!” Clint shouts, way too high pitched. He clears his throat. “I mean, hey Matt, want to help us with this puzzle? You can work on all the sides because I’m nice like that. Bucky’s just being mean to me because I accidentally made him jump this morning.”

Bucky scoffs. “You dropped out of an air-vent right in front of me and said ‘hi.’ How is that accidentally?”

“I said ‘hi.’” Rustling of carpet as Clint shifts. “That’s polite. That’s got to count for something. And I kind of forgot you might not notice me. Natasha never jumps.”

“Natasha has nerves made of steel.” Movement of hair as Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing will make her jump.”

“Well there was this one time…” Clint’s heart speeds up as he catches up with what he’s saying.

Bucky’s voice takes a dangerous edge. “Yes?”

“No.” Fabric against carpet as Clint moves away. “No. She’d kill me.”

“Hey Matt?” Karen’s voice asks from the other side of the couch.

Matt pushes off the duvet that had somehow tucked around him while he was sleeping. Swallowing a yawn, he pulls himself up, poking his head over the back of the couch.

“Your hair is ridiculously fluffy right now Murdock.” A smile in Foggy’s voice. His breathing is still too wet. Not upset. Sickness. “You slept for maybe thirty minutes? So you’ve got around an hour before the physiotherapist gets here about your shoulder.”

Another stranger to poke and prod him. Great…

“He’s not going to kill you Matt,” Karen says. Shuffling of paper in front of her. The hum of electricity. A laptop maybe? “I had some physio when I broke my wrist in high school. It was no big deal. Mostly just a list of instructions of what and what not to do. Have you ever had physio before?”

Matt rocks his hand from side to side. Sort of.

Foggy’s heart speeds up a little. “I’m guessing not the professional kind.”

Well, he had broken his hand on school property when he was fifteen and been taken to hospital. That had come with a list of instructions that he hadn’t really needed. It wasn’t that different from what he’d had to do after Stick broke his fingers when he was ten. The first in a long line of broken bones. Some that needed a little attention to get working right again, some that didn’t.

Matt shakes his head. Not the professional kind. He’d been an expert by the time he needed the professional kind. But he hasn’t ever broken his shoulder blade before, so maybe there’ll be something new to learn this time.

“Matt? If I throw you something will you be able to catch it?” Karen asks. Nerves in her voice. She’s trying to hide them.

Matt nods, holding out his left hand.

The sound of an object flying through the air. She’s good at throwing. He barely needs to move his hand to catch it. It’s round. Thick stitches over it. Bumps and dents over its smooth surface that he knows. Foggy’s softball from the office.

“Karen picked up some stuff from the office,” Foggy says. His heart beats too fast for the words. “Thought it would be best to keep it here since we won’t be back there for a while.”

There’s something more to that. Something Foggy’s hiding. Matt tries to direct his eyes towards the sound of Karen’s breathing.

“Someone broke into the office,” Karen says quickly like he’d thought she would. “They trashed a few things. Nothing we can’t clean up or replace if you guys want to continue renting the space.”

It figures. Anyone who knew his name would be able to find the office where he worked. They’d advertised it. It’ll be easier for people to find than his apartment, though the odds are that someone had found and trashed that too.

“Guilt face Matt. I’m outlawing the guilt face.” Foggy’s voice is strained. “What number are we on?”

Matt drops the softball on the couch beside him. Shows them a hand with two fingers.

Paper against paper as Foggy shuffles through the stack in front of him. “Me and Karen are going to look through these reports. See if we can find anymore witnesses we can call to contest your charges. Karen’s already found a whole bunch of them. But you know, the more charges we can get dropped at this stage the better. Why don’t you have a go at that puzzle until the physio gets here. You can help us go through some of these afterwards if you want.”

They’re down as Nelson and Murdock in the phone book. That’s what Foggy reminded him the day after _it_ happened. If they found Matt’s apartment, it’s likely they found Foggy’s too.

He slips from the couch, grabbing the softball. Doesn’t even get mad that Foggy’s basically told him to go play while the adults work. It’s not like he’s been much of an adult lately. People trashed their office. People probably trashed Foggy’s apartment. All because of Matt.

The puzzle is interesting. Not braille exactly. Instead it’s a raised geometric pattern. Fit the pieces together, complete the pattern. It appeals to the logical side of his brain. By the time Bucky stops trying to tickle the truth about Natasha out of Clint he’s added over a dozen pieces. At least it helps take his mind off things. He should be grateful for that.

***

“Jesus Matt.” Bucky sounds impressed. “How are you so good at this?”

Cardboard against cardboard as Clint attempts to place a piece. A tugging sound as he takes it away. It must not fit. “Is this a super-senses thing?”

Matt shakes his head, tracing his fingers over the pile of puzzle pieces in the cardboard box between them. There are five possible pieces he’s looking for. He knows more or less what shape each piece should be and what pattern it should have. He finds one that matches the gap in the bottom right of the puzzle. He finds it again with a finger, slots it in place. Apart from the raised pattern the puzzle is glossy and according to Bucky looks the same as your average puzzle. The image is of the avengers. Something made to highlight the over-sexualisation of females in comics. Apparently all the males in the team are in traditional female poses. Matt’s not sure what those are exactly but the others seem both amused and appalled by them. Natasha is in the middle of the puzzle in a total bad-ass (according to Clint) male pose.

Clint makes a considering noise. “A blind thing?”

Matt shrugs a shoulder. More or less. His senses are good, but they can fluctuate. Super-senses or no super-senses, his most reliable way of getting around is memory. After memorising all of Hell’s Kitchen, their university campus, and a chunk of midtown during their internship at Landman and Zach's, memorising what pieces he needs to complete a geometric puzzle is easy.

The hum of the elevator.

Matt tilts his head. Two heartbeats. One is slow and steady. Natasha. The other is faster. Odd. Not human. Huh.

Picking up the softball he slides back onto the couch. Higher ground might be needed. That second heartbeat sounds plenty excited. A little smaller than a humans, but not by much. A dog.

A whoosh as the elevator door opens. A horrible smell floods into the room. Ugh. Higher ground definitely needed. There’s no way he’s letting that dog near him. Not when he knows what the animal rolled in. This is why he refused to get a guide dog all the many times Foggy brought it up. Dogs are gross.

Fast movement. Clicking of claws over wood as the dog skids into Clint. It makes high pitched yelps as it leaps all over him. There’s wet slurping noises. It’s licking his face. Disgusting. All that horrible smell is going to get on Clint’s clothes.

Clint laughs.

Skidding of paws over carpet as the dog seems to try to go in three directions at once. It launches itself at the couch. That stench slams into him like a sledgehammer. How can people not smell it? The cushion moves as the dog tries to clamber its way onto it.

Matt leaps backward, landing neatly on the back of the couch. He crouches there, balancing on his bandaged feet. The sprains around his hips and thighs complain, but he manages to stay steady with the help of his hand, softball still clutched in his fingers. That dog better not get its stench on the blanket or duvet. He can’t imagine how many washes it would take to get rid of every trace.

A choked noise from the dog as someone grabs its collar. Clint. “Do you - do you not like dogs?” He sounds like he might cry.

Fabric against wood as Foggy shuffles in his chair. “Matty. Can you come here?”

Matt slips neatly off the back of the couch. He retreats fast to Foggy’s side, placing the scent of Foggy between him and the dog. Foggy’s heart beats too fast. So does Karen’s though her shuffling of paper only slows a little. So does everyone’s. What’s wrong?

“I know you’re not afraid of dogs.” Foggy places a hand on his side. “So what’s up?”

Oh. That’s what’s wrong. They’re worrying about him. Maybe they think he’s going to freak out again. He makes a disgusted face.

Foggy’s breathing evens out. Relieved. “You think the dog smells bad?”

Really really bad. He nods.

Clint yelps. The scrape of leather against skin as he loses his grip on the dog’s collar.

Movement as Bucky makes a grab for it. Apparently this dog can outmanoeuvre the famous Bucky Barnes because the dog races right for Matt.

One well executed leap and Matt lands softly on the table near Karen. Her heart-rate speeds up only a little before steadying. The shuffling of paper as she moves the papers near his feet. “He smell that bad, huh?”

Matt crouches, checking the space around him is clear of papers before sitting down. He nods.

The dog doesn’t seem put off by the glare Matt attempts to direct its way. The air moves madly around its wagging tail. It’s a little disorientating.

“Lucky!” Clint shouts, finally getting to his feet. “I’m sorry. I swear he’s usually really chilled. He just hasn’t seen me in like a week. My friend borrowed him, and then he went to get a little refresher training. And new people, you know? After he’s met someone he’s totally calm.”

“Aw.” Movement of fabric as Karen looks around him. “He’s really cute.”

Well, he doesn’t smell cute.

“Matty, I bet if you let him sniff you he’ll calm down. He just wants to say hello, don’t you big guy?” Slapping of flesh against fabric. Foggy tapping his legs, trying to beckon the dog over.

“Foggy,” Matt says, alarm escaping into his voice. He shakes his head rapidly. He likes Foggy. He doesn’t want him to smell like (ugh gross) cat feces. It could taint Foggy’s scent for days.

“Come on Matt. He can’t smell that bad. You’ve walked through Hell’s Kitchen on garbage day. You can take a little doggy smell.”

One: doggy smell is not cat feces. Two: he may walk through Hell’s Kitchen on garbage day, but he goes out of his way to not to rub it all over his hands like Foggy is doing.

He screws up his nose, listening as Foggy makes cooing noises, patting the animal all over. The dog pants happily at the attention.

A skip in Foggy’s heartbeat. "You can take the smell, can't you? You're not going to throw up?"

Matt shakes his head, but keeps his disgusted expression. As long as Foggy doesn't touch him with his cat poop hands.

"You're a good dog, aren't you?" The sounds of fur moving as Foggy smooths his hands all over the dog. Gross. Fur against wood as the dog sits. "Hey Matt. I bet if you throw that softball Lucky will chase after it."

Matt shoves the softball into the pocket of his hoodie. He is not about to let dog drool get all over Foggy's softball. He huffs.

"Don't worry Matt." A small smile in Karen's voice. "I won't touch the dog if you don't want me to."

He likes Karen. Karen can be his new favourite.

Slow almost silent footsteps as Natasha walks over to the table. "Kate did say she took him for a walk before dropping him off. Maybe he rolled in something?"

Foggy freezes. A long pause before he speaks. "Matt," he says, voice even. "Did he roll in something?"

Matt cringes. Nods his head.

Sharp movement as Foggy pushes himself to his feet. Short clipped footsteps to the kitchen area. His limp is fading. "And you didn't tell me?" His heart beats too fast. Not happy.

Matt makes a frustrated gesture.

"Do I want to know what I have all over my hands?"

Matt makes a face, shakes his head.

"Fine," Foggy says in a mildly panicked voice that says it's not fine. The sound of water running. "Totally grossed out right now. Barton go scrub that dog down."

"C'mon Lucky." Clint shuffles toward the elevator, sounding like he's pouting.

Natasha moves until she's standing a short distance away from Matt, then stills. All sound and movement from her stops, like she's staring. It lasts a good ten seconds before her feet make their quiet way the kitchen area. The sound of the freezer opening. A wave of cold. The sound of it closing.

The sound of something flying through the air. He grabs it, almost dropping it again because it's freezing. An ice pack.

"For your shoulder," she says before her footsteps make their way toward the puzzle and Bucky.

"She scares me a little," Karen whispers beside him.

Matt nods. Nice, but also scary.

Foggy's footsteps make their way to them. "Do I pass inspection?"

Matt points toward the sink, before placing the ice pack on his burning shoulder blade.

Foggy mutters under his breath about super-senses ruining his precious ignorance before he shuffles to the kitchen area to wash his hands again.

***

His physiotherapist is called Devan. He smells like cheap cigarettes.

Matt sits on the smaller couch. Devan might need to sit close to him to guide him through some of the exercises. The larger couch is nice, but he doesn't want to be stuck between a stranger and its tall back. That's too much like being trapped.

The smaller couch has a clear path to both exits. The door to the rest of the communal floor on his right. The elevators on his left. Devan perches on the coffee table across from him and doesn't block either way out.

Nervous sweat drifts from him. Not much, but it's there. He listens carefully as Foggy explains the things that Matt doesn't like. No gripping of limbs. No looming. The phrase 'PTSD' comes up, as does 'he doesn't really talk, but he understands. He'll nod and shake his head, and might be able to use the laptop to communicate.'

His heart is too fast. Maybe he recognises Matt from the news. Maybe he's just not used to working with people as messed up as Matt. Matt doesn’t know that much about him except that someone at the fundraiser Tony and Pepper went to recommended him, and he has good references.

The others had mysteriously left shortly before Devan got here. Karen had a couple of possible leads she'd pieced together from a long conversation between her and Matt using the laptop. It had been hard to figure out where the keys were with only one hand. Muscle memory helped him with the left side of the keyboard, but the right left him at a loss. Still, after a couple passes to remind him which keys were which they'd had a decent back and forth.

"Well." Devan tries to cover the nerves in his voice with a warm tone. It doesn't work as well when Matt can hear his heart. "It's a hairline fracture, so it could be worse. But shoulder blades are pretty important. You have a lot of muscle attachments there. You'll need to go easy. Five minutes a day of exercise at first. Keep it immobile the rest of the time. We'll build up, and hopefully by the time we get the sling off we won't be far off your usual activity levels."

"He boxes." Foggy is a solid weight by his side.

"Right. Well if things go fine he'll be able to box with his left side in a week or two without irritating his right shoulder blade too much. The right is going to take longer with that radius fracture. If he's careful he can start working towards it once the plaster comes off. Now I'd like to check your range of motion if that's OK?"

Matt has to take off his baggy hoodie and unhook his sling. He leaves as much of the hoodie on as he can get away with, but Devan's heart still speeds up. Without sight it's hard to know what the man sees. He knows about the heavier bruising around his waist and over his cracked ribs, but the lighter bruising is harder to keep track of.

Then there's the bite mark underneath his right shoulder blade. That's not easy to keep hidden.

Devan narrates various movements for Matt to try. He has to stop the moment it starts hurting. That's hard to gauge when he's so used to working through pain. His range of movement is depressingly small.

There's one that Devan asks to touch him for. He doesn't think he's moving right to engage a particular muscle and wants to check. He asks first, so it's fine. Olivia touched him in a worse position than this. He managed that. He can manage this.

It's fine. He nods.

Devan's hand is cautious. There's hesitation on his breath. He doesn't smell like anger. He smells like massage oils, rubber gloves, hair gel. None of them smelled like that. None of it is similar.

Except, he also smells like cheap cigarettes.

The same brand of cheap cigarettes.

Icy cold floods over him. All he feels is the hand by his shoulder blade. All he can smell is those cheap cigarettes. Jeering rattles in the back of his skull.

Before he can process running he's in the elevator. The doors must've been opened ready because they close behind him. He thinks there might be a voice calling his name.

One moment he's too cold. The next he's too hot. The sensations rush through him, crashing into each other like a storm. He can't feel his hands and feet. Air cycles in and out of his lungs too fast to do anything with.

"Mr Murdock. You are safe. You are in Avengers tower. The time is 1:05 pm on Monday the 28th of March. You are experiencing a panic attack. It will pass. I'm taking you to your apartment."

It takes a while to place the voice. It seems to be coming from everywhere. Jarvis. That's it. Jarvis.

He can't breathe.

The movement underneath his feet stops. The elevator doors whoosh open. He moves out of the enclosed space, not sure where he's going.

"Five paces forward Mr Murdock. Then two paces to your right. I've unlocked the door." It's odd. Same voice coming from a different location.

The instructions are repeated two more times before he figures out how to follow them. The door opens easily. He stumbles inside.

The smell of leather further into the room to his right. He walks into it more than finds it. His legs fold out from under him, and it's luck that makes him collapse onto the couch and not the floor. He hugs his ribs tight, trying to get them to stop screaming. Skin against skin. His hoodie is gone. Where did that go?

It comes back to him in bits and pieces. Devan's heartbeat racing as Matt jumped up from the couch. Was he just scared, or did Matt hurt him? Did he react the way he reacted to Foggy when he pushed him over that coffee table?

Matt forces in a breath. He panicked again. It was just a simple physio appointment, and he panicked. He ran away like a little kid running from some imagined monster. God he's pathetic. There was no danger. Devan doesn't move like a fighter. He'd be easier to take down than the weakest of the thugs.

There was no danger. So why is his body telling him there is?

Matt's teeth find his forearm, closer to the wrist this time. He bites down as long as his too quick breathing lets him. He pours all this anger into the action. It's good. By the time he lets go some of the tension is gone from his shoulders. It's easier to take deeper breaths.

He takes several deep breaths. He may not be in control of what happened down there, but he's in control of this. Digging his fingers into his leg he evens out his breathing. Finds a peculiar kind of calm that's made of anger. A gentle clawing at his chest. The anger is there, but it knows he's about to let it out. It's content to wait.

Another bite. He uses his knees to trap his arm. Bite, push, pull. He grips his teeth hard enough to make everything in his head scream. Every other thought vanishes for a moment.

Hands on his head. Foggy's heartbeat. Wet in his voice. "Matty. Matty. Come on. Stop. Let go please. Please let go."

He doesn't want to stop. He curls around his arm. Clenches his hand into a fist to make the pain scream brighter. It empties his head better than any mediation.

A hand combs through his hair. Another wraps around his arm. "Matty please. Please. Please let go."

He lets go, panting. Wipes his mouth against his legs to get rid of any saliva. The hand around his arm stays firm. The one in his hair continues stroking.

"You're fine buddy." Foggy's body heat crouches over him. His voice is still too wet, both from sickness and upset. "It's fine. Everyone understands."

Everyone understands because everyone thinks he's some helpless victim. And the worst part is he's not even sure he can be mad at them for it. It's not like they're wrong. It's what he's acting like. "Did I hurt him?"

"No. He's fine."

Not a lie. "But I scared him."

A pause. Foggy's heartbeat flutters. Evasive. "He'll be fine Matt. Don't worry about it."

Matt shakes his head. His body thrums with tension. "I shouldn't be acting like this."

"Matt you were-" Foggy's breath stutters. "You went through something really bad. You're going to be reacting to it for a while. It's not your fault."

He shakes his head. A thin chuckle breaks out of his chest. It sounds wrong in the air. Like shattered glass.

Foggy's heartbeat jumps in speed. "Matt? You know that, right? You know it's not your fault?"

Matt pulls away from Foggy, gets to his feet. His legs feel unsteady.

"Matt." Foggy keeps going. Of course he keeps going. He doesn't understand this like Matt does. "None of this is your fault. None of it. What they did to you, that's on them. They're the perpetrators. You're the victim. We're lawyers. You know how this works."

Matt flinches, shakes his head. He's not sure what part of the statement he's disagreeing about.

"This isn't your fault. Matty, this isn't your fault. Please say you understand that."

Matt takes a couple of steps away from Foggy. His stomach turns over. He's Daredevil. Everyone knows he's gone up against worse odds. It's so obvious this is his fault. Does Foggy really not understand that? Or is he just playing him? Pretending it's not Matt's fault to try and make him feel better. "Stop saying that."

"Matt." Too much wet in his voice. It's not far from a sob. "None of this is your fault."

Hurt explodes in his chest. Foggy is supposed to be truthful with him. "Stop lying to me!"

Suddenly Foggy is in front of him. A hand wraps around his and tugs it to a warm chest. A heart beats fast under his palm. There's salt in the air. Tears. "Matt I'm not lying. Listen to me. OK, listen. None of this is your fault. What they did to you is not your fault."

Foggy's heart stays steady. It doesn't make sense.

Foggy's hand presses over his. Gritted teeth and tears in his voice. "This. Is. Not. Your. Fault."

Matt shakes his head, bewildered. Foggy honestly believes that. "It is my fault."

"Matt-"

"No." Foggy needs to understand this. Matt owes it to him to explain. "Stop saying that! I should have taken them down. I've gone up against worse. It was stupid. I was stupid. It was a cat Foggy! I got distracted by a stupid cat! And they - There were so many opportunities to get away. If I'd just used my head. So don't tell me it's not my fault!"

More salt in the air. Foggy's breath hitches under Matt's hand. "Matty. It isn't your fault. It's their's."

Matt shakes his head.

There are heartbeats outside the apartment door. Two of them. Steve and Bucky. Matt's being louder than he means to. They can probably hear every word.

Matt tries to pull his hand away. Foggy just holds on tighter, pinning it over his heart. "Matt. Can you try saying the words? Can you try saying it's not your fault. Maybe it will help you believe it."

Like lying will make it true. Anger rattles his bones. It floods his body with white hot fire. It spews out into his words, turning them into a yell. "It is my fault! _It‘s all my fault!"_

Somewhere in all that anger he must yank his hand away, because suddenly he's standing a few steps back from Foggy, and there's a thump and a pained groan as Foggy hits the floor.

The anger leaves. He feels empty without it.

"Foggy?" He takes a cautious step forward. His voice shakes. "Foggy did I hurt you? Are you OK?"

"Fine Matty." The pain and wetness in his voice say he's not fine even without listening to his heartbeat. His breath hitches. He's trying not to, but he's crying. "It's just this cold. It's really doing a number on me."

No smell of blood in the air, but the smell of salt is overpowering. Shuffling as Foggy tries to get to his feet. A lighter thump of flesh against wood as he slips back down again. His breathing breaks into stifled sobs. It’s a pained sound. Matt can’t tell if it’s more physical or emotional. All he knows is Foggy is hurting. Matt should help, shouldn’t he? But how can he do that? All he does is make things worse.

Steve and Bucky’s heartbeats stay outside the door. Why aren’t they coming in to help Foggy?

Matt takes a step towards Foggy. Stops. Every hitch in Foggy’s breath cuts through him. His hand twitches, wanting to reach out and pull Foggy to his feet. His mouth opens and closes, trying to find words to make his friend feel better. There are no words good enough. He’s not good enough for this.

Steve and Bucky aren’t coming to help Foggy because they know Matt doesn’t like other people in his and Foggy’s apartment. Matt hurt Foggy. And Matt is the reason why Foggy is sitting in the middle of the apartment floor with no one to help him.

That empty feeling wraps around him like dense fog. It invades every one of his pores, weighing him down. He used to be able to help his friend when he was feeling down. Now he can’t remember how. He’s not sure he should try even if he did remember. He caused this. He hurt Foggy physically and emotionally. He made him cry.

His feet walk towards the apartment door. They feel disconnected from the rest of him.

He fumbles for the handle, pulls it open. Steve and Bucky’s hearts race faster. Matt gestures them inside, making sure his hand points in the direction of Foggy’s hitched breaths. He doesn’t wait to see if they take the offer.

He walks past Foggy, to the wall on the left of the apartment. Tracing it with his fingers, he finds his bedroom door and disappears inside. The silk sheets of his bed are cool against his skin. He buries his head in the pile of pillows. The duvet is gone, still downstairs on the couch.

It takes a full minute of shivering before he realises his hoodie is gone too. Bucky and Steve saw the bruises. The ones on his waist and hips. The bite mark on his back. He can’t find the energy to care.

***

A knock on his bedroom door.

He doesn’t move, staying curled up on his left side against the pillows, his hand clutching the corner of one of them tight. The door opens slowly. Bucky’s heartbeat. Steve’s is in the other room, next to Foggy’s. Foggy is still crying.

Bucky’s voice. Nervous. “I brought you your duvet.”

A pause, like Bucky’s waiting for some response. When none comes there’s a heavy moment of air. The duvet lands gently around Matt’s shoulders. Matt shifts, tugging it over his head.

“Foggy’s fine. He’s just upset. You didn’t hurt him.” No lie in Bucky’s voice. But it is a lie. Matt hurt him. Matt’s presence hurt him. Matt’s mistakes hurt him.

Bucky’s uneven footsteps move around the bed, as if talking to Matt’s face instead of his back is going to make a difference. Shuffling of clothing as Bucky crouches down. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but things are going to get better.”

Foggy is crying in the other room. Matt feels like someone has cut him open and scooped out everything inside, leaving him an empty husk. How can anything ever get better? Every moment it seems to, things come crashing down again.

He’s getting tired of trying to get back up.

“I made something for you.” Nerves back in Bucky’s voice. The sound of something placed on the bed next to Matt. Bucky taps on it twice as if signalling where it is. The sound of that strange metal against plastic. “I wasn’t so good at communicating myself in the beginning. Bruce made this for me. PECS. Er. Picture exchange communication. Each square has a word and a picture on it. You hand it to someone to tell them what you want or just to talk. I figure this way you have something to communicate with even when you fall out with technology. We had to print it all out again a little bigger to fit the braille on. That’s why it took so long. Most of the words are from my collection, so you might not need all of them. I added a couple I thought you might like, but if you want any more you just need to ask.”

Matt should say thank you. That’s what he’d usually do in this situation, isn’t it?

“Me and Steve are going to hang out with you guys for a bit. Maybe watch a movie or something. Your hoodie is on the bedside table. There’s a bottle of water there too. We’d be really happy if you come sit with us. No one’s going to talk about what happened. Not today. Not if you don’t want us to. If you want to chill here that’s fine. One of us will come check in every now and again. Just, if you want something, anything, you only need to ask. OK pal?”

Matt listens, waits until Bucky finally gets up and walks out the room. Then his hand pokes out from under the covers. His fingers find plastic and tug the object under the duvet.

It’s the size of a large book. Several plastic pages bound together by metal. He opens it to a random page, curious despite everything. Each page has rows of velcro strips. Each row has several laminated squares of card stuck to it. Raised bumps on each card. Braille. The cards on the page are all types of food. Chicken soup. Pad Thai. His fingers move to the top. The first is oatmeal. The second is oatmeal and cookie.

He should push the book away. He doesn’t deserve it. But his fingers trace the bumps that spell out oatmeal and cookie again and he finds himself pulling the book closer to his side.


	16. Chapter 16

He sits on the couch and tries to put on his shoes.

The task shouldn’t be so difficult. It shouldn’t take this long. But his limbs are heavy. His fingers keep forgetting what they’re doing. He drops the shoe twice before he manages to get his foot anywhere near it.

“Jesus Murdock,” Foggy says as he finally finishes the last of Matt’s shirt buttons and moves to attacking his hair. “Your hair is really getting out of control. How much shampoo are you using on it lately? Not that it doesn’t look good. Many teenagers would pay good money to get the boy-band look you’re rocking. But boy-band isn’t exactly a look we should be going for in court. And it’s getting kind of long. Think you’ll let me cut it?”

Matt finally slips his foot into his shoe. His hand fiddles with the laces before realising, right, only one hand.

Foggy’s hand pushes his out of the way. “I’ll get that. You put on your left shoe. I put it next to your foot.”

The apartment door opens. Steve’s heartbeat walks through it. The smell of oatmeal. “I brought breakfast. How are you getting on?”

“Nearly ready. Finally. Hey, are you any good at putting a tie on another person? Apparently it’s a whole different set of actions and my brain is getting confused.” Short sharp sounds as Foggy finishes tying the shoe lace. “Matty. You’re putting your left shoe on now, remember?”

Right. He remembers. His hand and foot search for it. They find it quickly. Foggy put it closer this time. Finding the opening where his foot should go takes longer.

“Sure.” Ceramic against wood as Steve places the bowls down on the table. Two bowls. One smells like jam and oatmeal. The other just oatmeal. “Bucky didn’t bother learning how to tie his own tie until he went away to war. He’d always get me or one of his sisters to do it.”

Matt manages to slip his second shoe on.

Foggy’s fingers are on it the moment he’s done, tying the lace. “Don’t tie it too tight. I didn’t think much of it before, but there were some bruises on his neck right after. And we don’t have time for - don’t chance it OK?”

“No problem.” Steve’s body heat fills the place Foggy leaves as the man crouches in front of him. “I’m going to do up your tie, OK Matt?” His hands are slow and gentle. They lift his collar, move the silk tie with confidence, pull it up to a loose knot, then tuck his collar back in place all without touching his skin.

“Up Matt,” Foggy says. “Breakfast. Your oatmeal is ten paces forward, three to the right. Try and eat it quick, OK buddy?”

Steve moves away. His breath hitches like he wants to say something.

Matt pushes up from the couch. Ten paces forward. Three to the right. He collapses into the chair, fumbles for the spoon before starting to eat. It tastes of nothing.

“You should eat,” Steve says. His heart beats worried.

Foggy huffs a laugh. “I still have to get myself ready now that he’s done. Can you keep an eye on him? He’s a little out of it this morning. You’ll have to keep reminding him that he’s supposed to be eating. Or he’ll drift off and forget. And try not to let him get oatmeal down his shirt. I’d rather not have to change it. It takes way too much fiddling to get that plaster cast through his shirt sleeve.”

“Foggy.” Steve’s voice quietens. His heart stays fast. “Last night. Is that normal for him?”

“Well eight times is a new record. But yeah, it’s starting to look like this is another element of the new Matt Murdock version of normal. Surely you’ve heard them? They get pretty loud.” Foggy sounds tired. His voice is thick from the cold.

“The residential floors have thick walls. Hulk proofing. I don’t think we can hear it in our apartment.” Steve sounds shocked. His heart sounds shocked too. “How long has this been going on?”

“Karen thinks he had one a couple of nights after those bastards hurt him. It’s hard to tell. We’ve tried asking him about it in therapy, but he’s away a lot, you know? And there are so many things I need to talk to him about, I kind of need to pick and choose. Pace things out. The good news is Fiona’s pretty sure he’s not aware of most of them. But I won’t know for sure until we have that conversation.”

“He didn’t have any Sunday night when me and Bucky were with you in the communal lounge.”

“No. He tends not to have them when he’s really really out of it.” Skin against skin. Foggy rubbing his face. “Look. Do you mind if I get ready? I don’t know how long it’s going to take to walk him to the garage. And I need to leave time in case - you know - panic attacks. We can’t be late for court.”

Skin against fabric. Steve grips Foggy’s shoulder. “Foggy. If you’re looking after him in the day, and he’s like that at night, when are you sleeping?”

A smile in Foggy’s voice. No smile in his heart. “I’m fine Steve. I sleep when I can. I’m not Murdock. I take care of myself. I’m all about taking care of myself. As soon as today is over I’m having a nice long nap, and eating my weight in something wonderful. Don’t worry.”

Foggy’s footsteps move toward the second bedroom. Steve’s move towards the table. The impact of flesh against wood as he falls heavily into the chair beside Matt’s.

Steve sounds tired, like Foggy’s weariness is catching. “You’re eating Matt. Remember? Can you take another bite?”

***

There are too many people. Matt can smell them.

The headphones over his ears block out their heartbeats, the sound of their clothes and hair, the sounds of all the other people that must be somewhere further into the building. According to his ears there are maybe ten people in the large room around him. Not many. But his nose tells him different. His nose tells him that hundreds of different people have come and gone through this entry room in the past few days.

“No electronics allowed.” A bored male voice says. “You’ll have to leave those in your car.”

Foggy’s hand leaves his elbow. The rustling of paper. “They’re ear defenders. Nothing electronic about them. This is a note from his psychiatrist. He has a recognised condition. It explains why he needs them.”

A long moment of silence. The man reading the note?

“Hmm.” Rustling of paper as the man hands the note back. “I’ll need to see them to check they aren’t electronic.”

The headphones leave his ears. The rush of sounds is painful. Voices. Heartbeats. Clothing against clothing. Clothing against skin. A man talks somewhere about how long he’s been waiting. A girl complains that she wanted white chocolate milk, not milk chocolate milk. A woman asks if she needs to touch up her makeup.

Hands press over his ears. They help a little. “Can you hurry up. There’s a reason he needs those.”

Marci’s voice, cold and deadly. “Unless you want to explain to your supervisor why you deprived a man with a recognised disability of an aid he needs to function.”

The headphones come back. Matt can breathe again.

***

They wait in a hallway. Matt can only tell its basic shape. One door to his right behind which come muffled sounds. People walk back and forth down a corridor to his left, but rarely come down their offshoot.

He flicks through the pack of braille playing cards Foggy handed him. He tries to shuffle it with one hand, memorise the order.

“You never said he was so bad.” Marci doesn’t even add Foggy-Bear onto the sentence like she usually does. She must be upset. They stand a little away from Matt, keeping their voices hushed. Whether that’s for his benefit or the benefit of the people passing by them he can’t tell.

“Why are people so surprised by that?” Genuine confusion in Foggy’s voice. “You know what happened to him.”

Everyone knows what happened to him.

“We could use this,” Marci says, deliberation in his voice. “If he gets a medical certificate saying he can’t attend court.”

“Tried that. It wasn’t approved. Anyway you know that would’ve just postponed things.”

“If we got prosecution to test him. To declare if he’s unfit to stand trial.” But Marci doesn’t sound sure of her words.

“No way. No freaking way. You know what would happen.” Frustration in Foggy’s voice. Not quite anger, but getting there. “A mandatory five day stay locked up in a psychiatric hospital for evaluation. You’ve heard what goes on in those places. I’m not letting him go there. Then if he’s found mentally unfit to stand trial he’ll be locked up for treatment. At the tower he has his personal therapist. He has a group of supportive people willing to get him any resource he needs. He has me. All they’ll do at Kirby is pump him full of drugs and lock him up in the middle of a bunch of noises and smells he can’t take. Drugs aren’t going to work for him. From what I know about him there’s a big chance they’ll make things worse. Then it’ll be off to Rikers to await trial when they think he’s well enough. Then back to Kirby for treatment when he inevitably relapses like they always at Rikers. Then back to Rikers again when the budget at Kirby says they need to cure him. You know there are hundreds of people who haven’t even been convicted yet who’ve served years locked up in hospitals and Rikers. People declared mentally ill serve more time behind bars, not less.”

Marci’s high heels click as he moves closer to Foggy. “Is he unfit to stand trial? Because if he’s being charged with crimes he doesn’t understand-”

“That would be wrong. But no. He does understand. He’s just-” A pause. Maybe a gesture. “He’s not always here. He goes away a lot in his head. But when he’s here he understands. So he’s not mentally unfit. He’s just not the best right now. If we could’ve postponed things with a medical certificate that would’ve been great, but as it is I don’t want to push things in case-”

“In case they evaluate him and find him unfit. It’s not implausible if they catch him at the wrong time.” A pause like she’s considering things. “So we’ll just have to destroy them in court.” A smile curves into her voice. There’s a dangerous edge to it. “This will be fun.”

***

They enter a plea of not guilty by reasons of self defence and defence of others.

Foggy makes the opening speech. It’s a good one. Passionate like all Foggy’s opening speeches are.

“This is a case of discrimination,” Foggy says after he states the charges. Forty-six charges of aggravated assault. Two charges of resisting arrest. “I ask any one of you. If you passed by a group of men beating up a defenceless woman. You heard her cries. You knew you could get to her to help. Could you look yourself in the mirror if you did nothing? No. You are good people. You would do what hundreds of people did last year and the year before and help.”

Foggy’s feet pace back and forth in front of the grand jurors. “Would you be justified to hit those men with the force needed to protect that woman? The law says yes. You are legally allowed to defend another in immediate physical danger, just as you are allowed to defend yourself. Are you allowed to detain said criminals until the police arrive. The law also says yes. The citizens arrests statues of New York authorise any person to arrest and hold in custody a guilty offender. Good people in New York do this every week. They don’t get in trouble. No one accuses them of breaking any laws, because they haven’t.”

A pause. Even sitting at his table near the middle of the room with the headphones tight over his ears, Matt imagines he can hear the tension in the room.

“The only difference between those people and my client is that woman who you would run to protect if you heard her scream ten meters away, my client would hear at the same volume two blocks away. And he would run to protect her, just as you would. Your job is to decide whether my client should be charged for doing exactly the same thing any other person would be expected to do. The prosecution will argue that my client should be convicted because of the volume of charges brought against him. I call that discrimination. If one day a woman screamed for your help from one metre away, then a child the next day, and a man the next, and you protected every one of them you wouldn’t be guilty of any crime. But because my client can hear a little further than anyone else he is suddenly expected to act differently. To not react of someone screaming for help.

“Every single one of the people who filed assault charges against my client was committing a crime or had recently committed a crime at the time my client confronted them. My client acted with good intention, and in doing so saved lives as my witnesses will testify. So I ask you to bear this in mind during everything that follows. If you wouldn’t blame a deaf person for not hearing and reacting to a scream they can’t hear. How can you blame a person who hears someone cry for help a block away and runs to help?”

Foggy’s footsteps walk briskly back to the table. Marci whispers something. Matt can’t tell what.

Warm against his left side as Foggy slips into the chair next to him. Foggy’s hand finds his arm and squeezes.

***

Not much happens after that.

It’s anti-climatic compared to how long he’d worried about it. The prosecution presents all the evidence at Grand Jury. Both the evidence for the prosecution and that of the defence. The defence has nothing to do but sit silently and wait. They get to summon witnesses to speak on Matt’s behalf, who will start appearing two days from now. But when they come they can’t even be in the room to hear them speak. They can’t object to anything the prosecution says. They can’t cross examine their witnesses. Their hands are tied.

At the end of Grand Jury the grand jurors will decide whether there’s enough evidence to bring a formal indictment against Matt. If there isn’t he’ll be acquitted of all charges. If there is, this case will go onto Supreme Court and what most people think of as a normal trial.

The day drags. Matt almost knocks off the glasses several times trying to rub the headache out of his skull until Foggy reminds him to drink. There’s so much he seems to be forgetting lately.

He does his best to concentrate on the PECS book, memorising each of the symbols and where they are. There are a few pages for different types of food and drink. One for emotions. One with parts of the body and a pain scale. Another for activities. Another for everyday things such as brushing teeth, bed, shower. Another for objects. The fleece blanket is on there. One with words and the beginnings of phrases. Please. Thank you. Sorry. Can I have. One page that he lingers over. It has a square for everyone in the Avengers tower including Foggy and Lucky. There’s one for Karen. Squares for Mr and Mrs Nelson and Candace. Squares for Fiona and Olivia.

When they settle back at the table in the courtroom after lunch a guard must get curious about the book, because the next thing he knows Marci is speaking. There’s that dangerous smile back in her voice again. She’s standing somewhere in front of him. He can’t tell exactly where with the headphones on.

“If you dare take away his communication aid I’ll have you charged with discrimination so fast your head will spin.”

There’s a choked sound. Then the footsteps of the guard move away.

Maybe Marci should get a square too.

The afternoon speeds by faster than the morning and soon enough he’s gripping Foggy’s elbow and being guided into the backseat of a limo. The scent of leather seats, alcohol and a trace of Marci’s perfume left from this morning. He wrinkles his nose. Marci’s perfume lingers everywhere. It’s the same perfume she’s worn since they met her in law school, all flowery and horrible. Ick.

The door closes and that perfume fills the small space. It’s like she manages to produce more of it just by sitting there. Maybe she does. Maybe the perfume comes directly from her pores. That’s a terrifying thought.

It’s only when Foggy coughs next to him that Matt remembers he’s sick. How could he forget that? His body heat is abnormally warm. His voice is thick and a little croaky. And Matt’s sure this can’t be the first time he’s coughed today.

Matt’s hand finds Foggy’s forehead. It’s hotter than it was yesterday.

Foggy brushes it away gently. “I’m fine Matty. Just a cold and a sore throat. Nothing I can’t handle.”

Matt frowns at him, hoping he can see the expression under the sunglasses.

“He’s right Foggy-Bear,” Marci says from the other side of Foggy. “You do look terrible.”

***

Matt’s feeling kind of wrung out by the time they drop Marci off, get back to the tower, change into more comfortable clothes, and settle in the communal lounge. It’s a lot. It’s not supposed to feel like a lot. But it does.

Foggy seems to think it feels like a lot too, because he heads straight for the large couch and flops on the opposite side to Matt’s corner. Fabric against leather as he stretches out and groans. “Stop the world. I want to get off.”

Matt can agree with that. He wants everything to stop too. He sits down on the carpet next to Foggy, back leaning against the coffee table.

“Looking kind of tired there buddy.” Hair against leather as Foggy tilts his head towards him. “How about a nap before Olivia comes.”

Matt grits his teeth, rubs a hand across his face and knocks his glasses off. He should’ve removed them when he’d taken off the headphones. It’s not like everyone hasn’t seen him without them enough times. “I-I shouldn’t be tired. I slept for - for a long time last night.”

Shifting as Foggy reaches down and picks up his glasses. Plastic against wood as he places them on the coffee table. “Did you have any bad dreams last night?”

It’s an odd question. Matt blinks. “I don’t think so.”

Creaking of leather as Foggy settles his head back on the armrest. “I don’t think you’ve been sleeping as well as you think you have. Last night you woke up eight times, screaming.”

There was a conversation about that this morning, wasn’t there? He half remembers it. Something about eight being a record. “Foggy. If I did that I’d remember, wouldn’t I?”

“Night terrors.” The word sounds clinical coming out of Foggy’s mouth. Like he’s had a lot of time to process it. “Most of the time you have them you won’t remember. Which is good. But I’m guessing they still won’t be conductive to a restful night sleep.”

Waking up screaming. He swallows. “How could I not remember?”

“Fiona talked about them. Do you remember?”

He shakes his head.

“Let’s see. I did some research so I should be able to explain.” Foggy sighs. “So from what I understand it’s like a different state of consciousness. You don’t quite wake up. People do different things. But you sit up in your bed and scream. Sometimes you shout. Sometimes you look like you’re trying to fight someone. Yours last between ten and fifteen minutes. That’s pretty average. Then I can usually persuade you to go back to sleep. Since you don’t fully wake up, you don’t remember it.”

Matt wets his lips. “But you wake up.”

“Yeah. Yeah. I wake up.” Foggy takes a deep breath. “Look. Apparently this isn’t uncommon in PTSD. And it’s not like you’ve had them every single night. So I’m hoping this is one of those things that goes away. Fiona mainly wanted you to know because adults have a higher chance of waking up partway through and experiencing whatever feeling makes someone sit up and scream for ten minutes straight. So yeah. That’s it.”

That’s it. He’s been screaming for large chunks of the night and hadn’t even noticed. He can’t imagine how Foggy must feel sharing an apartment with someone who could start screaming at any hour of the night. How does he sleep? “You’re tired.”

“Yeah Matt I’m tired.” Frustration in Foggy’s voice. “Can you get up here and take a nap so I can go to sleep? I can tell you need one. And I don’t really feel up to dealing with you overtired after court and Olivia.”

Matt tucks his knees to his chest. Foggy’s frustrated and tired and sick. He’s probably frustrated with Matt. There’s a niggling thought in the back of Matt’s head. Words that might make Foggy not be so angry at Matt. “Foggy.”

Foggy groans. “What is it?”

Matt bites his tongue, releases it. “Devan.”

Foggy’s heartbeat jumps. Surprise. His voice softens. “What about Devan?”

Matt shifts on the carpet. He can’t believe he’s doing this voluntarily. But maybe it will make Foggy happier. And Bucky said that if he wanted to get better he couldn’t keep things locked up inside. He does want to get better. “I don’t like the way he smells.”

“OK.” Creaking of leather as Foggy levers himself up on the couch. “What does he smell like?”

“Cheap cigarettes.” His hand finds the satchel he’s still wearing on his left shoulder. It has the PECS book in it. “It smells like - or maybe the brand is similar.. I don’t like it.” He finishes lamely.

A smile in Foggy’s voice. “I’m giving you the biggest smile right now. Matt. You initiated a feelings talk. I’m so so proud of you buddy. I’m gonna - wait. Can I give you a hug?”

Matt tries and fails to keep a smile off his face at Foggy’s enthusiasm. He leans toward the couch, allowing Foggy to wrap an arm around his shoulders and drop a noisy kiss on the top of his head.

“You Matt are getting cookies and ice cream. Maybe cookies with ice cream. Would you like that?”

Cookies with ice cream sounds amazing. But it’s not like he needs it. He just wanted to make Foggy less sad. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Buddy, I’d throw you a party right now if I didn’t think you’d spend the whole time eyeing the exit. Wait. No. Earing the exit. No, that doesn’t work. Anyway, we’re celebrating. Want to do it after Olivia, then we can watch a movie or play a game or something? Really make a big deal of it.”

“Foggy you’re being ridiculous.” He tilts his head a little, listening to Foggy’s lungs. They sound wrong. Too much of that gunk still inside them. “You should get some rest.”

The thump of flesh against leather as Foggy drops his head back onto the armrest. He yawns. “Cookies and ice cream buddy. I promise.”

***

“Matt.” The scent of blueberries and paper. Pepper.

Matt uncurls from his corner of the couch. The fleece blanket falls from his shoulders as he sits up. Someone must have draped it over him while he was sleeping. He turns his face in the direction of Pepper’s voice, by the coffee table.

“Olivia’s here. In the same room as before,” she whispers.

A soft snore comes from the other end of the couch. Foggy’s still asleep. That’s why she’s whispering.

Matt uses all his skills to keep his movements silent as he makes his way to the room by the bathroom. Two heartbeats next to each other. One large and steady. The other small and fast. The scent of honey. Olivia.

He finds the chair, sits down. His heart thumps too fast in his chest. What was it Foggy said earlier? Stop the world. I want to get off. Matt wants the world to stop. He wants to get off. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to do this.

Olivia starts by recapping the sequence of events so far. The woman. The two punches. The cat. Getting hit with the baseball bat. Him falling down. Them keeping him there through kicks and punches and that baseball bat. Then taking off his mask. Finding the-

Then it trails off because he never told her what they found. His fingers hover over the keyboard. After what might be a minute, and what might be an hour he types a word. ‘Zip.’ They found the zip to his suit.

Then he gets up and walks out of the room.

He’s shaking by the time he walks into the communal lounge. Pepper’s heartbeat stays steady over on the smaller couch. She taps away at something buzzing with electricity. Foggy’s heartbeat is on the larger couch, still slowed in sleep.

Of course. Because Matt’s only been gone for a couple of minutes. He left after a couple of minutes. One word. He didn’t even try. He should turn around and go back. He knows what happened next, doesn’t he? The knife he almost got. No. That was before they found the zip. After was? After was them peeling off the suit from his torso. He can tell her that, can’t he?

Instead his feet walk towards the kitchen area. Foggy is too warm. His throat sounds too sore. Matt can find him some soup.

His hand finds one of the cupboards and freezes. There’s something just above the handle. A plastic label. Raised bumps. Braille. It says bowls and small plates. His fingers skim across the markings twice more before moving to the cupboard to the right. Large plates. Next cupboard. Cans.

That’s the one he wants.

He crouches down on the smooth floor, opens it. Tries to ignore the strange tightness in his chest the braille labels brings. It’s a fluttering emotion. It doesn’t last long before being swallowed by the punch to his stomach feeling that tells him he should be in that room making his statement to Olivia. Foggy might not even want soup. Matt knows Foggy likes eating chicken noodle soup when he doesn’t feel well, but what if he wants something different this time?

Matt’s making excuses. He’s hiding, like a coward.

The cans don’t have braille on them.

A bang as the can rebounds against a cupboard to his left. It hits at an angle, skittering away towards the kitchen table. Matt brings a knee to his chest, knocks his forehead against it hard.

Foggy’s breathing doesn’t change its rhythm. He must be really tired.

Pepper’s heels click their way to the kitchen area. Slow and steady. Shifting of fabric as she kneels down before straightening up and clicking the rest of the way to Matt’s side. Fabric shifting again as she crouches down with a fair space left between them. The scrape of metal against wood as she sets the can between them. She sets something softer, larger next to it. Cloth of some kind.

“I brought you your PECS book. Maybe you can try telling me what you’re looking for so I can help you?” Her voice is soft, kind.

Matt’s hand finds the satchel, searching until he finds the plastic book inside. He settles on the floor in a very loose approximation of cross legged so he can spread the pages over his lap. The sprains around his hips and thighs don’t allow anything tighter. His body rocks a little as he flicks through the pages. Back and forth. If he had another hand he’d fist it in his hair. Instead he grits his teeth.

The square is on the first food page. He rips it off and shows it to her.

“Chicken soup?’ Pepper sounds a little unsure. “And you want one of the cans?”

She thinks it’s for him. That’s why she’s confused. Matt’s soup is a cardboard container kept in the fridge. Foggy doesn’t like that one. He says it’s too watery. Matt points in the direction of Foggy’s light snores before placing the soup symbol back in its place.

“You want chicken soup for Foggy?”

He nods. His body doesn’t stop rocking.

“Well then you’re in luck.” A smile in Pepper’s voice. “Chicken soup is a favourite around here. We should have plenty.” Scraping of metal as she sorts through the cans. “Here we go. Cream of chicken or chicken noodle?”

He nods at the last one. Chicken noodle is Foggy’s favourite.

“Chicken noodle?”

Another nod.

“Looks like we have a plan.” Her voice sounds almost as warm as Olivia’s. “Why don’t you put away those cans and I’ll hunt down a saucepan?”

The elevator doors whoosh open when Matt’s put the last can back in the cupboard. Pepper’s emptying the soup into a saucepan with a slop sound. Her body heat is far enough away that she’s not looming.

Bucky’s uneven footsteps walk towards him. Stiff fabric moving as he crouches down. “Hey pal. You’re looking kinda tense. Wanna come for a walk with me around the gym level?”

He’s still rocking. His teeth are still gritted. His heart feels like it’s thumping in his throat.

“I’ll make sure Foggy gets his soup,” Pepper says. Her heart says truth. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell him it was your idea.”

***

Steve and Clint are sparring. Sam’s heartbeat stands a little aside. Outside the boxing ring Matt thinks.

Rapid footsteps as Steve rushes towards Clint. Some kind of graceful movement as Clint dodges out of the way.

“Not distracted!” Clint shouts, sounding way too pleased about it. “Not distracted this time Steve!”

A grunt as Steve makes another attempt. Scuffling noises. Giggling from Clint. Softer chuckling noises from Steve.

There’s an eye-roll in Sam’s voice. “Captain America. You are supposed to be training for your next daring feat to save the world. Not trying to give Hawkeye a noogie.”

More scuffling. Louder giggles.

“And now Hawkeye is actually giving Captain America a noogie. Guys. You are stomping out my last shred of hero worship. People think you’re bad-ass. How can people think you’re bad-ass?”

Matt follows Bucky’s uneven footsteps to the Nerf gun room. He’s shaking. His breathing comes too harsh. The satchel is a comforting weight on his left shoulder.

“Just walk, OK,” Bucky says as the change in airflow tells him they’ve entered the Nerf gun room. It smells like before. Metal, wood, rubber, sweat. “If you haven’t torn those stitches on your feet yet, you won’t do now. Try and work out some of that tension.”

Matt walks. The cane is folded up in his hoodie pocket but he doesn’t take it out. He remembers the layout from last time. He weaves in and out of objects, the changes in airflow helping him follow the map in his head. It’s good to have something to concentrate on. It’s like a giant puzzle.

Then he finds a piece in the wrong place. He freezes.

“Matt?” Nerves in Bucky’s voice again. “What is it?”

It’s a wooden block. He taps on its side to hear it better. No. A ramp. And it wasn’t here before. It’s too close to the rubber wall to his left. It needs to move six inches away. That’s where it was when he mapped out the room.

He pushes at it, then has to shake out his shoulder when it complains.

“Here pal. Let me.” That strange metal against wood as Bucky shifts the wooden ramp forward. “Tell me when to stop.”

Matt holds up a hand when he thinks it’s in the right place, then taps the wood with his fist. There. Better. He slides down with his back against it, rubbing at the tension in his chest. His lungs are still too tight.

Shifting as Bucky crouches. No. Sits a little way in front of him. An odd beat of his heart. Slightly too fast. Then he chuckles. Skin against skin as he rubs his face. “You were moving it back. Clint is always moving that ramp to make it easier to climb up. Not that he needs the advantage. The cheating bastard. He moved it, and you moved it back. Jesus! Did you memorise the entire room?”

How else is he going to get around as fast as he might need to?

More chuckling. It’s a nice sound. Rougher than Steve’s or Foggy’s. “You’re something else Murdock.”

Matt’s not sure that’s a good thing. Olivia is still waiting on the communal floor. The hour is far from over. He should be up there giving her the entire sequence of events from start to finish. That’s what usually happens. That’s what people without training, people unused to pain do. They go. They talk. Maybe they cry, but they _talk._ They make their statements in an hour or two, going over the sequence of events at least twice.

Matt’s still stuck on the first twenty minutes. He hasn’t even told Olivia anything bad yet. How can he be such a coward?

“Pal? Can you move away from the ramp a little?” The laughter’s gone from Bucky’s voice. “Don’t want you getting tempted to hit your head again. Didn’t exactly bring a cushion with me.”

Matt should press charges and talk and not be the kind of person who rocks and bangs their head and loses it over the least little thing. This shouldn’t be such a big deal. He’s used to pain. He’s used to being hurt. And it was only a few hours. How can he be so out of control because of a few hours?

His fist hits the ramp hard enough for the noise to light up the entire room.

“Hey, we just moved that. C’mon Matt. Scooch forward. Get away from that ramp.” Nerves in Bucky’s heart. Nerves in Bucky’s voice.

Matt shuffles closer to Bucky away from the ramp. His entire body is coiled so tight it hurts. He rocks. The famous Bucky Barnes is next to him and he can’t stop rocking. He punches his leg with enough force to bruise. Once. Twice. Three times.

“You’re fine pal. I don’t know what’s eating at you, but you’re fine.” Bucky’s breath stutters like he wants to say something else. “You feel like telling me what’s wrong? You can try using the symbols in the book?”

Matt drives his fist into his leg again.

“You can just shake your head you know.” Fabric against wood as Bucky edges closer, but not too close. “You ever have a hand massage? Steve or Bruce give me one when I’m stressed. They help calm me down. According to Stevie I’m pretty decent at them too. Want to try it?”

That panicked feeling continues clutching at his heart. An old girlfriend had given him a shoulder massage once and that had been pretty amazing. But massages in general aren’t something he’s sure he’s comfortable with. For them to work you have to relax around another person. You have to let your guard down around another person.

“Can I have your hand Matt? Promise, you can snatch it back anytime you want. I’ll let go.”

Matt hesitates a few seconds, hand fisted in his sweatpants, before he reaches out.

Bucky’s hands close over his. One warm flesh. The other cold metal. That strong heartbeat thrums through him from the flesh half.

Matt’s heart leaps. He pulls his hand back. It comes away easily. No gripping. No grabbing. Bucky makes no move towards him.

Swallowing heavily, Matt offers his hand again.

This time Bucky moves even slower than before. His hands are impossibly gentle as they sandwich Matt’s hand between his palms, like Karen did that day he broke the plates. They rub little circles all over from his wrists to his fingers. As if Bucky’s trying to warm him up.

“Going to start with your fingers, then work my way up to your wrist.”

Bucky’s movements are slow, steady, and always always gentle. He massages from the tip of each finger in turn, to the knuckle. Then he follows the bones in Matt’s hand to the wrist. The warm hand does most of the work. It’s covered in more calluses than Matt’s own. But when the metal hand helps it’s even more careful, as if it wants to prove it’s something more than just a weapon.

Bucky doesn’t comment on Matt’s rocking. He doesn’t ask him to stop. Instead he moves his hands in time with Matt, so that they don’t yank when he rocks back, or press too hard when he rocks forward.

“Me or Stevie might sleep over sometimes if that’s all right with you,” Bucky says as he moves onto Matt’s wrist, stroking tiny circles. “To help at night. Foggy says you’ve been having bad dreams. Me and Stevie are hoping that if one of us is around to take a shift he might sleep better.”

Night terrors. Waking up screaming. He nods. Anything to help Foggy.

Bucky turns Matt’s hand over, strokes circles into his palm. It doesn’t stop the panicked feeling completely, but it soothes the edges off. His rocking slows. His breathing evens out. “There’s something I need to say to you Matt. You ain’t gonna like it, but it’s important you hear it. And it’s important you listen to my heart and know I’m telling the truth. Unless you want me to repeat it, I’ll only say it once today. So I need you to listen carefully. OK pal?”

Matt wracks his brain, trying to guess what Bucky is going to reprimand him for. He’s messed up so much recently it’s impossible to think of only one possibility. He nods. Best to get it over with.

Bucky’s hands swallow Matt’s. Metal hand to Matt’s palm. Warm hand over the back of Matt’s hand. Pressing lightly. Not gripping. “Nothing that happened that night was your fault.”

And that. That wasn’t what he expected to hear. His breath hitches in surprise. The muscles in his hand tense, ready to pull away. Then Bucky immediately lets up on the pressure over his hand, lifting the warm hand enough to let Matt know he can get away anytime he wants.

Matt blinks, and relaxes the muscles in his hand.

Bucky’s warm hand rests on his again. “Want me to repeat it?”

Matt shakes his head, the movement jerky.

Smooth movements from wrist to fingertip. “Know I’m telling the truth?”

Matt hesitates before nodding. It’s not the truth, but Bucky’s heart says he thinks it is.

“Think I undid all my hard work,” Bucky says with a smile in his voice. “Want me to try this hand massage thing again?”

Matt leaves his hand between Bucky’s. Lets that be answer enough.


	17. Chapter 17

Matt hears the noise before the elevator doors open to the communal lounge. He shrinks back.

Laughter washes over him as the doors whoosh open. Heartbeats and laughter and voices. Foggy complaining. Sam’s heartbeat next to him, sounding like he’s lecturing. Steve talking earnestly about something. A movie. How beautiful the art is. Tony’s voice talking fast by one of the armchairs. Bruce’s heartbeat slow in sleep below him in the chair. Pepper in the other chair. Clint and Natasha in the kitchen area. Lucky near Steve’s feet.

It’s a lot to take it all at once.

The creak of fabric as Bucky’s muscles tense. He strides out of the elevator, uneven footsteps heavy. “Would you all shut up for five goddamn minutes!”

Silence. Or Matt’s version of it. Like Bucky’s pressed a magic button connected to everyone’s vocal cords.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, exasperated. “You better have saved enough Chinese for me and Murdock.”

“There’s still leftovers.” Natasha moves gracefully from the kitchen area, something stinking of sweet and sour in her hands. “Chow mein pork for you Bucky. Egg fried rice for Matt. And cookie and his chocolate ice-cream set aside for afterwards. He’s celebrating.”

Really Foggy? You tell everyone?

A smile in Bucky’s voice. “You didn’t tell me that Murdock. What are you celebrating?”

Matt huffs, stepping out of the elevator. He shakes his head, hoping Bucky picks up on the cue to drop it.

Bucky might pick up on it, but Foggy doesn’t.

“Something really really good that I’m so proud of him for.” Foggy’s voice sounds worse than it did earlier. All raspy and painful. It’s a strange combination with the gushing words. At least he doesn’t specify that the reason why he’s acting like a proud parent whose kid took their first steps is because Matt told him he didn’t like the way someone smelled.

Matt can’t stop the warmth pooling in his chest when Foggy says he’s proud of him, even if he doesn’t deserve it.

Eager panting noises as Lucky makes his way over to Matt. He’s not as enthusiastic as last time, but Matt can still feel the air rush around his wagging tail.

Strange metal against leather as Bucky grabs Lucky’s collar. “Matt. Come here and let this mutt sniff your hand and he’ll stop bothering you.”

Matt directs his best sceptical look at Bucky.

That rough chuckle again. “Come on pal. Get it over with. You can wash your hand straight after. Promise.”

Matt sighs, but moves towards the sound of the panting. This isn’t going to work. Still, at least the dog smells better this time. He doesn’t smell nice. He’s a dog. But he smells like a dog should. Tinned meat, grass, and dogginess instead of anything really gross. He offers his hand.

Lucky sniffs. Rapid fire movements of air that make Matt twitch in disgust. The air disturbance from his tail grows. Then just as Matt’s expecting him to jump up or bark or one of the other horrible things dogs do that he hates, there’s a thump of flesh against wood and the dog’s heartbeat comes from the floor instead.

Huh. Weird.

“He’s showing you his belly.” Fabric shifting as Bucky crouches down. “Wants you to rub it.”

Matt crouches down slowly, curiosity getting the better of him. His hand finds the dog’s head first. A cold nose. Smooth muzzle. One eye is strange, rougher than the other.

“His last owners kicked him in front of a car,” Clint’s voice says from near the table. His voice is more subdued than it usually is. An undercurrent of anger to the words. “He lost an eye. There’s some scarring too you might be able to feel.”

Matt smooths his hand over Lucky’s head, pretending he’s still mapping it out instead of stroking the dog. Lucky doesn’t seem to mind, staying perfectly still under the attention. His heartbeat is slow, calm. He really does seem like a different dog now that he’s sniffed Matt and categorised his scent. Two ears, both smooth and fluffy. Scar tissue on one of them. Leather collar. Soft fur around his neck.

Matt traces his sides. Smooth fur, thinner than on his neck. Finds each of his paws. His tail is fluffy and wags under his fingers. He finds his face again, then his chest. The dog squirms at that. Moving so his chest is more directly under Matt’s hand. Right. Belly rubs. He rubs circles with a fist and finds a spot on Lucky’s side that makes the dog’s tail sweep rapidly over the floor. More movement next to Matt’s elbow. He’s - huh - he’s pinwheeling his leg.

Clint giggles. “You found his spot.”

Matt gets to his feet, moving past Clint’s heartbeat to the kitchen area. The dog doesn’t follow. There’s scrambling as the dog gets to its feet. A high pitched yawn. Then the slow click of paws onto the carpet by the television. The thump of flesh against carpet as he flops down. Lucky’s not so bad.

“We’re all here for once,” Sam’s voice says from near Foggy. “So this is like an unofficial movie night. Steve gets movie choice.”

The conversations start up slowly. Bucky puts Matt’s food on a tray while Matt washes his hand fourteen times. Lucky may not be so bad, but that doesn’t mean he wants to smell like him.

Foggy’s stretched out on the couch cushion next to Matt’s. His forehead is still too hot. His heartbeat is too slow like he’s still tired. He has a fluffy blanket that’s like Matt’s, but not Matt’s. Maybe he could use Matt’s blanket too. Maybe that will help him feel better.

“I swear to God Murdock, if you don’t stop mother-henning me I’m going to explode.” Foggy’s voice sounds terrible. Every now and then he coughs. “I’m sick, not dying. I’m dosed up on painkillers and cough medicine and goodness knows what else. I ate the chicken soup which was wonderful and glorious for my throat. I’m not hungry. I just need to rest, and maybe take another nap.”

Matt pushes himself to the back of the couch, points at the armrest.

“Not a bad idea.” Shifting of leather as Foggy lies across the front of Matt’s couch cushion, resting his head on the armrest. There’s enough room for Matt to sit behind him comfortably. “Love you buddy.”

Matt pats Foggy’s head to let him know the feeling’s mutual.

Steve’s movie choice is Kiki’s Delivery Service. There’s a young girl who’s also a witch, and a cat that says things that make Tony, Clint, and Bucky laugh. Steve supplements the audio description every now and again to tell him how beautiful the art is. He’s as good at describing things as Foggy is. The movie is good. There’s a scene Matt’s a little in love with where Kiki seems to be losing her ability to fly a broom and she launches herself off a hill again and again to try and get it back. Every time she falls down she gets back up.

Matt’s on his cookie and ice cream at that point and the reason Bucky has to remind him he’s eating is more to do with getting drawn into the movie than getting lost in his head. Kiki is awesome. She’s just so determined. The scene where she saves her friend is amazing because it’s her grit more than anything else that helps her win.

Foggy’s awake by the time it ends, and Matt’s honestly not sure when he woke up.

They play a game once it’s finished. A quick one because Foggy wants to cut Matt’s hair and get an early night.

They each get a piece of paper and have to write down five things they like and five things they don’t like. It can be food or activities or objects. Not people because Clint complains that’s favouritism. And that he’ll get sad if he’s not on someone’s list. Fictional people are however allowed. Nothing from anyone’s trigger lists.

Foggy insists he has to read them out despite his throat, because he’s the only one likely to be able to read Matt’s writing. Natasha compromises by splitting the lists in two and reading out half of them.

The first person to guess the identity of someone’s list gets a point. The person with the most points at the end wins.

Foggy chuckles when Matt hands him his list. It took him at least ten times as long as everyone else to etch out his, but no one seems to mind. “Matty. Your handwriting looks exactly like my cousin Cecilia’s.”

Matt hasn’t seen Cecilia’s writing, but since she’s three years old he’s not taking it as a compliment.

He has to rewrite a couple of the words since he mushed together the letters too much. But then Foggy shuffles it into his pile and they’re ready to start.

Natasha guesses Clint on the first like (arrows) “That was really obvious.” “But I really really like arrows Nat.” Clint guesses Nat on the first like (ballet). Bucky guesses Steve on (Studio Ghibli) which leads to a discussion on whether a movie company counts as a person or not. They decide it doesn’t and allow it. Sam and Steve guess Bucky at the same time on the list that starts the dislikes with modern bananas. After another discussion they get half a point each.

Pepper guesses both Bruce (likes green tea) and Tony (likes coffee). But finds herself head to head with Natasha when she guesses that Sam likes baking. Foggy earns himself a point when he manages to guess Pepper likes spicy food. After each list is guessed correctly, the original owner of the list reads it out to the others. Some of it Matt already knew. Bucky likes chocolate, Steve likes pancakes, Clint likes coffee, all Bruce, Pepper and Tony like blueberries. Others he didn’t. Bucky likes knives and dancing, Clint likes the circus, Natasha likes Bear who is apparently a very unoriginally named teddy bear a friend got her.

Matt gets Foggy of course. He likes musicals. But Foggy isn’t allowed to guess Matt’s since he helped him with it. So they make it to the third item (likes boxing, dislikes strong perfume, likes soft things) before everyone clambers to guess him at once despite two people still being left. Soft things is apparently a distinctive part of his personality. Stick would not be pleased. Foggy reads out the rest for him. Dislikes inaction, likes nice chocolate, dislikes fluorescent lights, likes atmospheric music, dislikes fireworks, likes taste of air before a storm, dislikes thunder.

Then Foggy decides that his terrible handwriting must be shown to the world, and everyone passes his list around looking fascinated. Tony, Pepper and Sam make cooing noises which is both confusing and disturbing. “Did I not tell you my strays are adorable. I have this strange urge to stick this on the fridge. Why do I want to put this on the fridge? Oh God, is this what normal well adjusted people feel like?” “Usually about their children, not their friends. Don’t worry Tony, you still have plenty of issues for your therapist to delve through.” “Thank God.”

Clint reacts with high pitched enthusiasm, because Matt and he are now in the same ‘terrible handwriting club.’ And apparently that is something to celebrate.

“Clint’s handwriting is just messy,” Bucky tells him later in the elevator. He sounds earnest, like he’s trying to make Matt feel better. “Like a seven year old’s who doesn’t give a damn. Yours is nicer. It’s neater in a childlike printed letters kind of way. Like a four year old determined to make it look neat but the letters are slightly different sizes and the words sort of veer off at an angle. It’s cute.”

Cute. He makes a face. At least it’s not often that he puts pen to paper.

Steve gives one of his soft chuckles. “Cute isn’t bad Matt. You’re allowed to be cute. And Bucky, you need to go easier on Clint. You know how much he likes you.”

“I like him too.” The doors whoosh open. Bucky’s the first one out. “I just like not liking him a whole lot too. Don’t worry, he gets it.”

They split up at Matt and Foggy’s apartment door. Steve is sleeping on their couch tonight, but first he needs to get his things.

***

Foggy’s voice is a rasp as he asks Matt to sit on a kitchen chair. His footsteps shuffle about, sounding heavy and weary as he finds the supplies to cut Matt’s hair.

Haircuts are evil.

There’s tugging, and that horrible sawing snipping noise. Cold scissors closing close enough to his ear that he’s sure he’s about to lose a chunk. Did he mention the tugging? The nun that did his most of the time at the orphanage would yank his head from left to right then tell him off for not staying still. A damp towel around his neck that stinks from the dozen kids that had just wiped their hands on it. Or if he splashes out for a barber there’s chemical stink everywhere. Less tugging, but more chance he’s going to walk away with less money in his pocket and hair that is fundamentally no different from when he walked in.

And the cut hair. That gets everywhere. It stays for days. It itches like crazy.

Somehow Foggy understands those things, though Matt’s sure he’s never explained them.

He loosens his hoodie around the neck. Wraps a giant hairdressing apron around Matt’s body that keeps the hair from his clothes. It came from Foggy’s hairdressing cousin Robin, who sat him down one thanksgiving and helped him find a hairstyle he liked. She even called various members of the family in so he could feel their hair and get more of an idea of his options, which was very instructive and more than a little embarrassing. It was the first hairstyle he’d chosen. Robin had been his hairdresser ever since, but she’d taught Foggy enough that he could maintain it until they met on major holidays.

“Spray,” Foggy says from his spot behind him.

Matt squeezes his eyes shut. Luke warm water mists over his hair from the spray bottle in Foggy’s hand. It’s not cold. Foggy always makes sure it’s not cold. But it still shocks his scalp enough to make him cringe.

It’ll help later. It’s easier for Foggy to get the style right, and the scissors make less of that scrape sound when they cut his hair. And by this point it’s tradition. Robin always says it’s good to have something stimulate the scalp before when you’re more sensitive. A spray of water, or rubbing it with a towel. Something to prepare it for the snipping that follows. Somehow she’d known even before she gave him his first haircut that he was one of those more sensitive people. Foggy says it’s because her daughter Belle doesn’t like those things either.

Foggy doesn’t tug. He tries to keep the cold scissors from his skin. He asks Matt to move his head this way and that instead of manhandling. Still, Matt always finds himself flinching a little when he gets too close to his ears.

Foggy laughs. It’s nice to hear it, even through his tortured throat. “Quit squirming.”

_‘Hold him down would you. He’s squirming.’_

The words feel like a punch to the gut. He reacts instinctively, spinning around to hit at the warmth behind him. The object he’s sitting on stops his motion half way. The warmth gets colder as the man backs away.

Time stops. There’s voices. A fast beating heart that he’s not sure is his own. Air too hot in his lungs.

“Matty? Matty, I’m going to get the hair off, OK?”

Another voice. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” Brushing around his neck. A comb through his hair. More brushing. “Another trigger word maybe. Can you keep telling him where he is. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

Warmth in front of him. A familiar voice. Soft. “Matt. You’re safe. You’re in your apartment in Avengers tower. It’s Steve. Me and Foggy are here. It’s 9:20pm on Tuesday the 29th of March. You’re safe.”

Voices. Fabric shifting. Warm hands with Foggy’s heartbeat. “Come on bud. Let’s go sit over here.”

Time and movement and shock so solid he can taste it. It tastes like ‘can’t catch your breath after a punch to the gut.’ It tastes like ‘metallic after mouth slams into concrete.’ It tastes like alleyways and fathers that don’t wake up. Like voices shouting ‘don’t move kid’ and burning in his eyes. Like antiseptic and gauze, frantic beeping, and ‘dad I can’t see!’

The feeling comes back to his body slowly, like it’s afraid what it will find there. Tingling in his arms and legs. Leather around him. Fleece in his lap. Not his blanket, but like his blanket. Voices and buzzing of electricity in front of him. Foggy’s heartbeat pressed to his left side. Another heartbeat somewhere, not far.

And drowning.

He’s drowning.

“Matty breathe.” A raspy voice. Foggy’s. It doesn’t sound like Foggy, but it is Foggy. “We’re in Avengers tower. We’re safe. Breathe with me buddy.”

His throat is too tight. There’s a choking feeling in his chest. His heart pounds rabbit fast. His stomach twists. Everything flashes too hot, then too cold. His brain screeches at him to ‘Hide! Hide!’ But he is hiding, isn’t he? He’s right next to Foggy. That is hiding. That is safe.

“Buddy?” One of Foggy’s hands rubs his back. “Do you know where you are?”

Buzzing of electricity around him. Foggy by his side. Leather. Fleece blanket that’s not his blanket. He knows this. There was a game and Kiki. Bucky likes dancing. Natasha has a teddy bear called Bear. “Aven - aven -aven.”

“You got it Matt. Avengers tower. In yours and my apartment. I was cutting your hair. I think you had another flashback.We’re going to breathe for a bit, OK?”

He’s safe. He knows he’s safe. He knows where he is. So why can’t he get panic to stop stabbing at his heart. It beats so fast for a moment he wonders if he’s having a heart attack. His brain still screams at him to hide. But he’s safe. He’s safe, so where would he even hide? Why would he need to?

He twists around, pressing himself into the corner of the couch. He brings his knees to his chest. Clutches the fleece blanket. That’s a little better, but it’s still not enough. The instinct to hide still screams at him. His heart beats so fast it hurts. Gritting his teeth, he drives his fist into his skull.

“Hey!” Hand around his arm, gripping. No. Foggy’s hand around his arm, gripping. That makes it OK. Doesn’t it? He’s not sure. “Matty. Don’t do that. Please don’t do that. Talk to me buddy. Tell me what’s going on.”

Matt clenches his arm, but the hand stays firm. He could get rid of it, but not without moving. He doesn’t want to move. The couch is safe. It’s by Foggy. He’s not sure about the rest of the room. He tries again, pulling his arm towards his head. He wants to hit again. He wants to drive the drowning feeling out of his brain.

Foggy tugs his arm to the bottom of the couch with both his hands. Moves so Matt’s hand is on the leather with Foggy’s pressed over it. “Steve. Can you give us a minute.”

“Sure.” Movement as Steve gets up from the couch. His heart beats worried. “I’ll wait in your room. Holler if you need anything.”

Burning lines cut down his face. His breath hitches.

“Oh Matty.” Foggy’s voice is wet, upset, raw, raspy. “Talk to me. What’s with the hitting?”

Wet on his face. A lot of wet on his face. He can hear the tiny sound it makes as it drips on his knees. His heart hammers. It hurts. “Need - need.”

“There are other solutions than punching yourself in the head Murdock.” A hand cups the back of his neck. Foggy’s heartbeat. It tugs him forward. “C’mere.”

Matt’s heart is too fast. He wants to hide, but he doesn’t know how, he doesn’t know where. The intensity of the feeling makes him want to scream. He lets himself be moved.

His chest to Foggy’s chest. Foggy’s cheek rests against the side of his head. Arms with Foggy’s heartbeat wrap around him tight but mindful of his injuries. A light swaying from side to side. “I have you. It’s OK.”

There’s a stink of fear in the air, overpowering. It takes too long to realise it’s coming from himself. That’s what this drowning is. He’s scared. He’s terrified. Why? He’s safe. He knows he’s safe. He buries his face in Foggy’s neck. Tries to curl up tight and inch close at the same time. The screaming in his head telling him to hide loses some of its sharp edges, but it doesn’t go away. “I don’t know what’s wrong.” The words come out sounding like sobs.

The arms stay tight around him. “Can you try explaining it?”

He shakes his head. The tears keep coming. “It won’t stop. I want it - I want it to stop.”

“What do you want to stop?”

He shakes his head again. The idea of admitting he’s so scared he’s crying is worse than staying like this.

“OK,” Foggy says evenly despite the rasping. “I’m going to guess from all the shaking and everything that this is more than your usual come down after a flashback. So are you hearing something?”

Another shake.

“Smelling?”

A shake.

“Any other super sense I’m missing?”

Another shake.

“In pain?”

Another shake.

Hesitation. “Feeling something?”

Matt tries to shift even closer to Foggy as if he can hide from the question. Foggy’s skin is too warm against his forehead, but it beats that familiar heartbeat through him.

The arms around him tighten enough that his ribs starts to complain. “OK bud, we got this. I think you’re having an emotional flashback. Fiona told us about them. They’re exactly the same as the other flashbacks, but you’re remembering an emotion you felt during - during the attack. We got through your other flashbacks. We can get through this one.”

Matt lets out a shuddering breath. The tears won’t stop. His heart keeps hammering so fast he can’t keep track. He can’t shove away the instinct to curl a little tighter into Foggy.

“We put a movie on while we were waiting for you to come out of your funk. Can you tell what it is?”

An electronic buzz from a little way in front of the couch. The sound of music. A familiar voice. “Hiccup,” Matt says into Foggy’s neck. “And Toothless.”

“Yeah.” A smile in Foggy’s voice. “Your favourite people. If you can call a dragon a person. What’s the movie called?”

“How to - how to train your dragon.”

“Good job Matty. And what’s happening?”

He listens. “Toothless is tied up. Hiccup is thinking of killing him, but he’s not going to.” The fear is still there. But at least the tears are slowing. “Toothless is - Toothless is different in the books.”

Foggy tilts his head, resting his cheek on top of Matt’s head. “What’s Toothless like in the books?”

“He’s - he’s tiny. About the size of a cat. And in the later books he only grows to about the s-size of a jack russel. He’s a really common breed. But in the movies he’s a night fury. That’s r-really rare. Karen says - Karen says he’s a lot bigger. Bigger than Hiccup. He’s all black with big eyes and looks across between a lizard and a cat. She says he’s cute.”

“He is cute. We’ll find a model at a toy store sometime so you can feel for yourself. But for now keep going. I want to hear about Toothless.”

***

“Time to get up Matt.” Not Foggy’s voice. Familiar though. Brooklyn accent. Rougher than Steve’s. Bucky.

Matt pushes out of blanket nest. He’s not well rested by a long shot, but he’s not terrible either. That’s about as much as he can hope for considering how long it took to shake the ‘scared. Need to hide’ feelings the flashback hit him with last night. It took so long that he’s pretty sure he passed out on the couch. Which means that someone helped him to his bed last night. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

“How are you today?” Shifting noises. Bucky half crouches by his bed. “Can you give me a number?”

He holds up two fingers. He has court today and that’s not good, and Olivia again afterwards. Fiona today as well, and Claire is coming by to maybe take off the cast on his fingers. It’s a lot. Every day recently feels like a lot.

“OK.” Nerves in Bucky’s heart. Metal against flesh as he clasps his hands together. “Listen pal. Me and Steve are forcing Foggy to take the day off. His fevers up. He’ll be fine, but he really needs bed-rest. Sam doesn’t need to be anywhere today, so he’s offered to come play nurse. Is it OK if he comes into the apartment to take care of Foggy?”

Guilt stabs through him. Foggy was sick. He knew Foggy was sick. And he kept him up last night when Foggy should’ve been resting. He’s probably the reason Foggy is worse.

“Matt? Can Sam come into the apartment to look after Foggy?”

Matt nods. Of course. Someone needs to take care of Foggy.

“Good. Look, me and Steve are coming with you today. We won’t be able to enter the courtroom, but we’ll wait just outside. And Marci will be in there with you. I’m looking forward to meeting her. Foggy said she makes quite an impression.”

That’s one way of describing it.

“OK pal. I got your clothes. I’ll toss them in the bathroom and you can go take a shower. That alright?” Shuffling as Bucky straightens up. His uneven footsteps move towards the door.

Matt nods and climbs off the bed.

***

They manage not to be late.

Jarvis reminds him when it’s time to get out of the shower, and Matt’s with it enough to listen to him. He dries off quickly and pulls on his clothing. Hurrying so he’ll get to sit with Foggy before he leaves. The bottom half of his clothing goes all right. But his shirt buttons are impossible. He’s only got half of them done by the time Bucky checks on him, and Bucky has to get Steve to undo half of those because they’re done up wrong (shirt buttons are also something Bucky finds difficult with his metal arm).

Steve does up his tie. Bucky does up his shoe laces, then fusses with his hair while he chokes down his oatmeal. Matt’s trying to eat fast, so he’s not really concentrating, but from the time Bucky spends over it Matt thinks he likes doing other people’s hair.

Matt gets twenty minutes to sit with Foggy. Foggy’s asleep for all of them, but they’re still good minutes. Foggy’s hand beats his heart up Matt’s arm. Sam hums as he gathers things that smell like cough syrup and other medicines. He tells Steve to bring up lots of ice lollies for Foggy’s throat. Then boils the kettle and places the water in some kind of container, makes the whole thing stink of menthol, then puts it on the floor by the side of the bed. “I’ll get him to sit over it once he wakes up,” he whispers to Matt.

All in all Matt leaves confident that Sam is a certified expert in mother-henning.

There’s a different guard who takes Matt’s headphones to check they’re not electronic. Bucky’s hands aren’t as comforting as Foggy’s, but they help block out the sound.

A lot of waiting before they can enter the courtroom. Steve sits next to him in the hallway, drags up a chair in front of them and shows Matt how to make a house of cards from his pack of braille playing cards. It is awesome and amazing, and Matt is a little angry at himself for never trying it before. Steve describes the structure as it grows, and lets Matt touch each card before he places it so he can see what position it’s in.

At the end Matt strokes his fingers feather light over the structure while Steve tries to convince him to take it apart so he can try making one himself. Matt doesn’t want to. It’s too perfect to destroy. But Marci’s been flirting with Bucky for the last five minutes, while the man makes choked sounds that suggest he doesn’t know how to respond. No increase in Bucky’s body heat except to his face, so he’s not attracted to her.

One more second of mourning, and Matt nudges a card that he knows will send the whole structure scattering. Bucky sounds relieved as he tells Matt “I got this pal” and scurries to gather up the cards. There’s a muffled noise from Steve that sounds suspiciously like a snigger.

Court is boring.

Prosecution presents the evidence. Mostly a lot of surveillance footage this morning. There are a lot of cameras in New York and plenty of glimpses to be had of the masked man. They’re using it along with expert testimony that concludes all these images are of the same person, and that person is Matt.

Marci sits at the desk next to him and keeps up a very sarcastic whispered narration of what’s going on. Lots of “Oh a blurry blob is hitting another blurry blob again. How can they get anything from this?” and “At least these idiots got a decent picture this time. Seriously Matthew, did you watch The Princess Bride one too many times as a kid?”

It’s nice that she’s narrating. He can’t remember her ever trying before. So he listens half heartedly and tries not to concentrate on the details. At least her voice sounds a little better when she’s whispering. When she talks it’s all kind of high pitched and harsh. Not warm and soft like Foggy’s and Karen’s voices. But the details they’re talking about are a little too heavy for him to take. They come wrapped in people he saved, people he didn’t, and reminders of all the people out there screaming for the past two weeks while he’s been ignoring them.

No hard topics allowed in his brain. He can’t have one of his episodes here.

So he runs his fingers over the table and tries to piece together a mental picture of the patterns in the wood. He tries to map out the room as best as his limited hearting will let him. He finds the sharp smell of mint and tries to guess which of the Grand Jurors is chewing gum.

An evidence number. Another video. The noise of several pieces of paper among the Grand Jurors. “You’ll notice that the photograph copied from the following video is undeniably Mr Murdock.”

A woman sobbing through old speakers. Fabric ripping. Men jeering. Familiar.

Matt’s fingers freeze on the table.

The thump of a punch. Screaming as the woman runs away. Swearing. “What the fuck?” Voices. He knows those voices.

Marci’s chair clatters on the floor behind her. “Who’s idea was this?! Turn that thing off!”

A male voice. Nasal. ADA Wilson. Not an easy guy to go up against, but always polite. He has three kids. Foggy asks about them by name every time they meet. “This is the video that led to establishing the identity of Daredevil. It’s important evidence. Don’t worry. I’m only showing as little as I need to. Only up until the unmasking.”

A second thump. A clang. A fucking clang as the baseball bat hits his head. Laughter. Swearing. Someone spits. He didn’t remember the spitting part before.

He can’t breathe.

Marci’s voice raises to a screech. “And you think that justifies showing a recent rape victim a video of their rapists? I’ve done some shitty things before, but I’d never stoop that low!”

The sound from the video stops. The voices go away. It doesn’t make a difference. He can still hear them.

“Counsellor!”

“Look at him Wilson!”

Silence. Silence and hot and cold, and his chest is too tight. There’s a table. He places his hand flat on the wood and tries to remember there’s a table. It’s easy to forget. He keeps mistaking it for grime covered alleyway.

“We’ll break for lunch.” Fast footsteps as Wilson makes his way towards them. “Murdock. Christ Murdock. I’m sorry. I sent someone to warn you. Didn’t you get the message?”

“We didn’t get a message,” Marci says, voice cold. “Now I suggest you back away from him before I ask again, not so nicely.”

Wilson’s footsteps move away hesitantly, like he had more he wanted to say. Lots of noise as the Grand Jurors get up and file out of the back of the room.

Marci sighs. “I think both of us wish Foggy was here right now.”

***

“What the hell happened?” Bucky’s voice, angry.

Marci’s hand on his arm. Her heartbeat. Is it her heartbeat? Leading him through a door to somewhere. Where? “Assholes decided to show the video. I’m going to bury them. Someone is behind this and that someone is going to pay. Take care of him. I’ve got work to do.”

Marci’s heartbeat disappears. She disappears. And there’s sounds and voices and footsteps. None of it makes sense.

And there’s jeering. Ripping fabric. The clang of a baseball bat. It echoes in his head, louder now the numbness is wearing off.

“Matt. Breathe, OK.” A voice. He knows it. “We need to get him out of the hallway Buck.”

“Fuck. OK. I’ll ask around. Maybe there’s an empty office. Else we’re going to have to stick him in the bathroom.”

“Can you Buck - talking - I know you don’t like-”

“Stevie. My anxiety doesn’t matter right now. It’s Matt. I can do it for him.”

There’s warmth. It’s too close. His chest hurts. His throat hurts. Everything hurts. He backs up. His legs hit something. Plastic? Metal? It doesn’t make sense.

“Matt. It’s Steve. Me and Bucky are here. You’re safe.”

Ripping of fabric.

“Matt breathe.”

Jeering.

“You’re safe.”

Clang of a baseball bat.

“Just breathe.”

_'Going to teach you a lesson you fucking bitch.'_

His fist hits something solid. The impact vibrates all the way up his arm.

_‘Hold him down would you.’_

The warmth moves closer. “Matt you’re going to hurt yourself.”

_‘Look at him crying his eyes out.’_

Matt hits out at the warmth. Impact. A noise of pain. And there’s something wrong about that. Something he’s doing wrong. The uncertainty itches and claws at him.

_‘What a fucking baby.’_

“Matt?”

He ducks, dodges around the warmth. His hand flicks up, instinctively knocking the band of pressure from around his ears. The influx of noise is painful, but it’s good too. A second of blindly running down what must be some kind of hallway and he can kind of see. He needs to be able to see.

He needs to get away. This is his chance. There were so many chances to get away that he missed. He can’t miss this one.

Screeches around him. Warmth. People? Scattering. It’s a good thing they move. He’s not sure he could focus enough to avoid all of them.

A voice behind him. Yelling his name?

The change of air flow in front of him. The distinctive sound of wind against glass. A window. He’s inside, which is strange. He wasn’t inside before. But he’s inside. Inside means trapped. So he needs to be outside.

Panicked words behind him. “Third floor!”

He wrenches the cracked window open. Squeezes out onto the sill. Has less than a second to scan his surroundings before leaping. Another building across from him. Too far to leap to without a run up, but the fire-escape is just about possible.

He means to roll onto the platform of the fire-escape itself, but he must come up short because his hand closes around the metal railing instead. His legs smack against the bottom of the fire escape with enough force to bruise. Not good, but at least nothing seems broken. This can work.

Drop, grab, drop, grab until he’s close enough to the ground to safely drop. Concrete under his shoes. His shoulder burns. His ribs and back ache. He ignores it, runs.

He’s not sure where he’s going. He’s not sure he’s going anywhere. All he knows is his heart is beating too fast. There’s clang of a baseball bat, jeering, laughter behind him. He needs to get away.

There are people, the stink of hot-dogs, the screech of traffic, the smell of buildings, the sun hot and cold against his skin. So many people. They’re everywhere. He knocks into a few of them in his attempt to get somewhere, he doesn’t know where.

Then there’s the smell of grass and trees. Somewhere ahead of him. A couple of blocks. That could mean a park. And if he’s lucky a park means quieter, less people, smell of ice cream, Foggy laughing and saying ‘hey buddy we should totally try to climb that tree.’

He sprints in the direction of the smell. The roar of traffic. The screech of tires.

Large arms wrapping around his middle, lifting him and moving him as if he weighs no more than a child. Swearing. Shocked noises. Heartbeats everywhere. “Matt.” The voice vibrates through him, a little out of breath. “Stay here. Stay still.”

Like he’s going to do that. He twists in the grip, hitting out.

The arms shift, pinning his arm against his side. His feet don’t touch the ground. “Matt I can’t let you go like this. It’s not safe. You almost got hit by a car.”

Another voice, familiar. “Do you have a backroom I can borrow. My friend’s having a panic attack. Needs a place to ride it out.” Arguing. “Yeah, well fuck you!”

He twists, but he can’t get free. He kicks backward, catching flesh. A grunt of pain, but the arms around him don’t loosen their grip.

“Is that Captain America?”

“Oh my God it is him. What’s he doing now? Catching purse snatchers?”

“No that’s the guy. You know the guy. The one from that sex video thing everyone was talking about.”

“Stevie! Over here!”

He’s moving. Or rather, the guy holding him is moving. Matt’s just twisting, jerking, and kicking as best as he can. He’s not going to let them keep him here. He’s going to hit and kick and claw their faces off until they let him go. He’s going to get free. He’s going to get up. He always gets back up.

But he can’t move. He can’t _move._

A door opening. Startled heartbeats. The smell of worn books, coffee, warm cookies. A voice he doesn’t know. Male. Elderly. “Right this way. I’ll sweep for sharps before you let him go.”

Change of air. Another room. Soft beneath him. The smell of dog. Arms still around him. Firm chest still against his back. Words vibrating through him. He only picks up some of them. “Matt” and “Steve” and “safe.”

“You boys need a hand?” That elderly voice again. “I know a guy. Works at a bar a few blocks away. Patient. Real good at restraining rowdy drunks without hurting them. Good with the guys with issues too.”

Matt screams, anger and frustration pouring out of him. He can’t kick. His arm is tight against his side. None of his head-butts connect. He can’t do anything.

The arms around him shift, moving until the only points of contact are a hand holding his left arm across his middle, and another on his side. “Yeah. Can you get him to knock if he comes. We’ll decide whether we need him then.”

More talking. Matt only hears a little of it over his screaming and the blood pounding in his ears. He’s going to kill them. He’s going to kill all of them.

“Matt. I know you’re upset, but me and Bucky are here for you. You’re safe.” Voice behind him. The one connected to his forearm and side. “I’m going to let you go. We’re just going to hang out here until you calm down, then we’re going home.”

The hands leave him. The warmth backs away before he can aim a hit at it. He’s shaking. His shoulder burns. His muscles are so tense it feels like his bones might shatter underneath them.

He pushes himself up from the soft fabric that smells like dog. Paces. A small room. Objects that Matt doesn’t pay attention to. It’s the exits he needs to know about. Three changes in airflow. Two of them doors. Warmth of people in front of each of them. The other is different. Wind against glass. A window. His feet head there. They almost trip over something on the way. He can’t tell what.

“It’s locked Matt.” That voice again. Soft. He should know it. Should he know it? “We’re safe in here. We’re in Ed’s bakery. You’re having a panic attack. It’s OK. It’s Steve. Me and Bucky are here. This is going to be over soon. We just need to breathe through it.”

The window won’t open. The lock is small and rough with rust. Too close to the frame to knock off with a kick. The window though…

The glass shatters with a high kick that all of his sprained muscles scream at him for. He loses a second when he tries to shrug off his jacket to knock away the rest of the glass. His right arm is all tied up to his chest with something, and it’s tangled with the jacket and he can’t get it off. Fuck. Should’ve used his shoe or maybe even just his hand. What is he thinking?

Warmth and weight and hands pushing him backwards away from the scent of city air. One hand is cold. The other warm. A different voice. Rougher. More of an accent. “Christ Murdock. You don’t do anything by halves do you? Come on pal. Let’s sit down and breathe.”

He knows the voice. More than that he knows the heartbeat pounding steady through that warm hand. He’s felt it before. A little of the anger leeches out of him. He grabs at the warm arm, needing to feel more of that heartbeat.

“Hey.” Everything about the person in front of him stills except the heartbeat which bounds faster. “Matt. You recognise me?”

No, but he almost does. It’s there on the tip of his brain. The heartbeat isn’t jeering, clang of baseball bat, pain, fear. It’s not ‘familiar but I don’t know’ like the heartbeat that put its arms around his waist and picked him up. This heartbeat is a cold arm under his knees and a warm one on his back. It’s ‘I ain’t gonna touch you until you tell me it’s OK.’ It’s gentle circles rubbing into the palm of his hand. It’s ‘nothing that happened that night was your fault.’

“Fuck Steve!” The voice says. The warm hand stays on Matt’s chest. “We should’ve thought of this. I’ve carried him. I gave him a fucking hand massage. Of fucking course he knows my heart better than yours.”

Matt flinches at the tone, but his fingers don’t let go of that arm.

“Hey Matt. Fuck. I’m sorry. It’s OK. You’re OK pal. It’s Bucky. You recognise me, right?”

Bucky. Strange metal. Whirring of machinery from left arm. Uneven footsteps. Brooklyn accent. Engine grease. Matt’s breath stutters, starts again.

“We’re gonna sit down pal. Come on. It’s OK.”

Bucky moves backwards. Matt’s grip on his arm means he has to follow. His legs find an object. He overbalances, sitting down heavily on soft fabric. A stink of dog, coffee, and baked goods rises at the impact.

Matt’s hand moves down Bucky’s arm towards warm chest. Presses a palm flat over where the heartbeat pounds strongest. The sensation vibrates through him.

“Yeah pal.” He hears and feels Bucky’s voice at the same time. There’s wet in it. Upset? “It’s me.”


	18. Chapter 18

The heart beats Bucky. That’s good. But the rest of it doesn’t make sense. There was running and baseball bats. Fear. He remembers fear. He doesn’t remember much else.

A knock from somewhere. The sound of a door opening. A voice he knows whispering. Saying “I don’t think we’ll need you, but if you could crouch in front of this door that’ll be good. Just stand up if he starts pacing. Don’t engage. If he approaches you we’ll deal with it. I’m hoping someone blocking the exit will discourage him if he gets the urge to bolt.”

A voice, low and rumbling. “No problem.”

“Matt,” the soft voice says. “This is Luke. You don’t need to worry about him. He’s going to stay right by the door. He’s here to help us keep you safe until Tony’s car arrives to pick us up. I’m going to go by the window in case you forget not to step on the glass.”

“You’re safe Matt,” Bucky’s voice vibrates up his arm. “You’ve got me and Steve and Ed’s friend Luke here. We’re holed up in Ed’s bakery which smells delicious. I’m ordering at least a dozen of his cookies the first chance I get. Hey Luke, I didn’t see, does he have any good chocolate cookies?”

“Triple chocolate,” the rumbling voice says. “But if it’s chocolate you’re looking for, you need to try a slice of his chocolate fudge cake with sauce.”

“Sold,” Bucky says. “What do you think Matt? Think Sam’s going to be angry if we bring someone else’s baked goods into the tower?”

Foggy was sick. There was a haircut. But no. The haircut was before. This is after. Something happened? They were here? He thinks they were here. He heard them.

“Matt you’re OK. You just had another flashback. We were in court and they showed something that triggered you. You ran, but it’s over now pal. Marci texted. She’s sorting it so we don’t have to go back today. We get to go home. Tony’s sending a car, then we’ll go and see Foggy.”

Court. There was a table. He remembers the table. He’s trembling enough that holding out his arm to feel Bucky’s heart is difficult. He finds his arm again, follows it until he can hook his fingers around Bucky’s wrist instead. His pulse point beats strong against his skin.

“Matt.” Bucky lowers their hands so they rest on the soft fabric that smells like dog. “Do you know where Steve is? Can you point to him?”

Matt frowns.

“Matt,” the soft voice says from the direction of the city air. “I’m here. It’s Steve.”

It doesn’t make sense. They were here, weren’t they? Matt heard them. He’s sure he heard them. “Cheap cigarettes? Cheap beer? Bubblegum. Tar in lungs. Old spice. Dirt. Skittles. Cocaine.” The words trip out of his mouth. He’s not sure they end up whole.

A jump in Bucky’s heartbeat. A jump in other heartbeats too?

That soft voice, no longer soft. “He’s describing them Buck.”

Bucky’s hand twitches under Matt’s grip, like he wants to wrap it around Matt’s wrist too. “They’re not here Matt. They weren’t here. You heard them on a video. Then you probably had one hell of a flashback. But they weren’t here.”

Matt doesn’t understand.

“I know you’re really fucking confused right now Murdock.” A strange tone in Bucky’s voice. Earnest. Sort of desperate. “But you can feel my heartbeat, right? So you know I’m telling the truth when I say they ain’t here. You’re safe pal. Me and Steve have got your back until we get you back to the tower.”

Bucky's heartbeat stays steady. Truth.

"Now pal. Can you tell me what you're sitting on?"

He knows this. He remembers doing this before. He's careful to keep two fingers on Bucky's pulse as he feels what's beneath them. An almost squishy softness. The fabric is mostly smooth stroked one way, and mostly rough stroked the other way. It carries a scent of "Cookies, cake, coffee, dog." The words refuse to rise above a mumble.

"Almost got it. Here." The hand with Bucky's heartbeat moves, curving around his gently. It raises Matt's hand, trails his fingers up to his right. The smooth/rough fabric continues up to shoulder height. Bucky traces his fingers down the fabric wall, across the soft smells like dog they're sitting on. "Can you work out what it is?"

At least there's no room for panic with the confusion in his head. It's easier to breathe. The object is squishy soft, fabric that's rough one way, smooth the other, a vague sense of shape, smells like dog, cookies, cake, coffee. All the pieces should fit together and make a name, but he doesn't know what that is.

"It's a couch Matt." Bucky's hand rests lightly on his. "Can you tell it's a couch?"

He shakes his head viciously. It's a bad idea. It makes him lose his bearings for long enough that the shivers wracking through his body make him waver dangerously. But what Bucky says doesn't make sense. "Leather."

"Not all couches are leather Matt, you remember? Ed's couch is just fabric."

As soon as Bucky says it, the memories start flooding in. Perching on the very edge of the fabric couch at the orphanage. It smelled like urine. Foggy's couch, the fabric a lot thinner than this one. Worn and lumpy and smelling of cheetos and old pizza.

He knows this. Why is he getting so confused?

Gritting his teeth, he pulls his hand from beneath Bucky's and thumps it hard against the cushion he's sitting on.

"It's OK Matt. You're OK." Gently. So so gently Bucky's hand rests over his fist again. It helps the trembles slow. "Everything's all scrambled right now. That's normal for you. Just breathe with me for a minute and it'll start making sense again."

They breathe. In for five, out for five. Matt only makes it to three, but that's better than before.

Steve swears from over by the window. Because it is Steve, he comes to realise. Something buzzing in his hands. "Tony's car is here, but apparently so is everyone else. We've got a crowd. At least a quarter of them are reporters."

People outside. A lot of noise. Screeching whine of large cameras. The stuttering noise of smaller ones focusing. Voices. A lot of voices.

"Fuck." Frustration in Bucky's voice? Maybe a touch of anger too. Matt doesn't like it when Bucky's angry. Some of that must show because when Bucky speaks again his voice is more even. "How we gonna get him through that? You know what his triggers are, and if he hits someone, all Pepper's hard work is going down the drain."

Rumbling voice. Luke. That's what they said his name was. "I might be able to help."

***

"My girlfriend's invested in the case," Luke says as they wait. "Last date we were on she spent one hour scrolling through social media updates and ranting, the last two hours chasing up leads."

Steve stands on Matt's right, close enough to feel his body heat. "Chasing up leads?"

"She's a PI. She'd kill me if she found out I met you and didn't give you one of her cards." Skin against paper as something is handed from Luke to Steve. "She's good. I'm not just saying that. She can help."

Shuffling of fabric as the card is stowed away. "I'll keep that in mind."

Matt's still shaking, but more from exhaustion than anything else. His legs are jelly. His shoulder blade and ribs scream. Everything else aches. It's an effort not to collapse into Bucky's side. As it is, he thinks he might be gripping Bucky's elbow too tight.

"Tell Ed we'll send someone to fix the window today," Bucky says gruffly. "And tell him thanks."

"He'll tell you to shove your thanks," Luke says, sounding fond. "He's a war vet. Understands this better than most."

A voice outside. Female. "We are live from the site where earlier today our very own Captain America was seen fighting the vigilante known as Daredevil. The reasons for the altercation are unclear, but our sources tell us that both hero and vigilante are still inside this very building."

A male voice. "So I told him to get lost. Like I'm going to let that crazy inside my store."

Another voice. "I heard it was all a hoax. You seen him fight? A guy like that doesn't get raped."

Another voice. "Mark my words he was high on something. I've seen people take drugs before. It's never pretty."

Another voice. "You'd think that sex video would give him all the attention he wants. Now he's trying to drum up more by picking a fight with Captain America in the middle of the street."

Another voice. "Rape bro. It's called rape. Show a little respect." Another voice. "Heard screaming from outside." Another voice. "Never seen someone act so insane."

"Matt." Bucky's voice. "Hey pal. Gonna put your headphones back on."

Plastic against his head. He backs away as far as his hold on Bucky's elbow will let him.

Hesitation in Bucky's voice. "You don't want them on?"

Matt shakes his head. His heart's still beating too fast. There are so many layers of fear sweat in the air, old and new. He remembers running. What if he needs to run again? He'll need to be able to see where he’s going.

Steve's voice. Soft again. "Matt. It's going to be really loud out there. We won't make you wear the headphones if you don't want to. But if you don't it's going to hurt, and I don't think you can take more hurt right now."

His shoulders slump. He should be able to take more hurt. He should be able to take anything. But his capacity for stress has already overflowed once today. And from the nervous energy humming underneath all his exhaustion he guesses he's not far off from overflowing again.

How did he get so out of control?

"Worried about what's going to happen once we're out there?" Bucky's voice rumbles through him. Somehow in backing away and holding onto his elbow, Matt had ended up partway hidden behind Bucky, his head an inch or two away from the other man's shoulder. Hiding, like he's scared.

Only he is scared, and that's what makes this whole situation so much worse. He's not made of glass. He doesn't need protecting. But he wants protection. He wants protection so badly.

Plastic against skin as Steve takes the headphones from Bucky. "I'm going to be covering your right side, Bucky's on your left, Luke has our flank. It's less than thirty seconds from the bakery to the car. Luke's plan will work. None of them will get near us. You don't need your hearing."

The words help. Matt lets his head tilt forward until his forehead touches the back of Bucky's shoulder, and that helps too. He grinds a frustrated sound through gritted teeth at how much it helps.

"We got you covered Matt," Bucky's voice rumbles through him. "You can stand down for this. Trust us, OK?"

Matt nods against the back of Bucky's shoulder.

***

Even with the headphones the wave of noise is overpowering.

"Mr Murdock! Over here! Look over here!"

Look. It would be funny if he wasn't so tired. All these people know his name, and none of them seem to understand anything about him.

"Mr Murdock, is it true that the video was staged?"

"How do you feel knowing your attackers are still out there?"

Matt tightens his grip around Bucky's elbow. They keep stumbling forward. Tony's car must be ahead of them, but Matt can't hear it over the noise. He has to trust that Bucky is leading him in the right direction.

Bucky speaks loud enough for Matt to hear. "I don't know if you can see this Murdock, but there's a whole line of people either side of us keeping the reporters away. And there's more of them appearing, pushing the reporters back. It's pretty amazing."

"Only some of them are mine," Luke shouts behind them. "Don't know where the others came from."

There's no time to process it before Bucky's telling him to "wait a sec" and disappearing from his side. Then Steve's hand is on his head, helping him duck into the car. Bucky's hand on his arm, guiding him into the right seat.

Quiet as Steve slams the door shut behind him and settles into the seat beside Matt. "Tony sent a car instead of a limo this time? That's unusual for him."

Clint's voice from the driver's seat. The car moves quickly. "Pepper's idea. Wants Matt to appear more human. She's the expert. I figure she knows best. How you all doing back there?"

Matt's feet are on the seat. His face pressed into his knees. He's not sure when he got in this position, or when his hand had started its repetitive thumping against his shin.

Steve is warm against his side. Close enough that Matt imagines he can almost feel his heartbeat. "I think a med check then lots of rest. Oh, and we have cookies and chocolate fudge cake."

"The true ingredients of good rest," Clint says, sounding knowing. "Did you guys see? Well, of course you saw. Or sensed, or whatever. All those people helping you guys. That was so cool!"

"Matt?" Bucky asks. "Can I take your hand?"

It trembles as he offers it.

Bucky's heart skips. Surprise. Then his hands are gentle over Matt's, sandwiching his hand between a cold palm and a warm one. Gentle circles before he starts massaging each finger from tip to knuckle. There's a smile in his voice. "Yeah. It was pretty cool."

***

The fifth time he refuses to get up off the floor they find him a chair.

Movement around him. Lots of buzzing electricity. Jarvis counts down thirty seconds. Matt has to stay sitting still on the chair that long while the electric things dance around him in a circle.

It’s difficult. He’s tired. Everything aches. His head’s hazy, and he’s not sure if that’s the exhaustion, or the way all the glass in this part of the medical floor distorts the sound-waves around him.

Bucky’s heart stays close by. Every now and then it flutters with nerves. Steve left somewhere, sometime. He’s not sure. He thinks he said something about Pepper. Something about a press statement.

Claire’s heartbeat stands further away, next to something that hums with a lot of electricity. The hum is deeper than most electronics. A computer he thinks. He’s proved right when the tapping of a keyboard starts up a moment after Jarvis announces the scan complete. “Doctor Hans says another week before we can take off the finger splint.”

Bucky’s feet shift towards Matt, then away again. “That normal?”

“Completely normal.” A frown in Claire’s voice. “Which is complexly abnormal for Matt. He doesn’t have healing factor, but his healing rate is way above average. I asked him about it once. He said he could increase his healing rate by mediating.”

“Yeah, well. Hasn’t exactly had the best mindset for mediating lately.”

Footsteps approaching the room, too fast. A heartbeat, also too fast. Behind it comes two more sets of footsteps, much slower.

The sound of the door opening. A smell Matt hates. “What’s the damage?”

Matt raises his head, all his muscles tensing.

Tension in the person’s voice. A thick fog of anger that chokes Matt’s throat. Heartbeat too fast. Muscles too tense. A threat. A threat in the same room as Bucky and Claire.

Matt pushes himself to his feet, grabs the chair. Moves between Bucky and the threat.

“Whoa Matt, whoa.” The sound of strange metal against wood as Bucky grabs the chair before he can throw it. Confusion in his voice. “Tony, you need to fuck off.”

“Gotcha.” Some of the cloud of anger fades even before those fast footsteps leave the room.

Tony?

Wood against floor as Bucky sets the chair down. Skin against skin as Bucky rubs his face. “You’re not having a good day, are you pal? What was that?”

Matt follows the fast footsteps with his ears until they disappear into an elevator. They sound like a faster version of Tony’s footsteps. But they belonged to the threat, not Tony. Tony isn’t a threat, is he?

All the exhaustion floods back in now Bucky and Claire aren’t in danger. He sways.

The door opens. Two more footsteps. One holds Foggy’s heartbeat, the other Natasha’s. Natasha’s footsteps are heavier, like Foggy is leaning on her.

“Matty.” Heavy footsteps, then arms with Foggy’s heartbeat wrap around him. They squeeze tight enough to hurt. Wet in his voice. Sickness or upset? “Christ Matty.”

“He reacted to Tony, didn’t he,” Natasha’s voice asks from somewhere behind Foggy.

Claire’s voice sounding worried. “You say that like you know what the heck just happened.”

“Nat?” Tension in Bucky’s voice. His heart beats fast. “You figured it out, didn’t you? Why he acted like he was scared of me, and why he pulled the same stunt with Tony.”

“It’s not because he’s scared.” A touch of warm enters Natasha’s voice. “He’s protective. That day he was protecting Foggy from you. Just now he was protecting you and Claire from Tony.”

Bucky’s heart skips with surprise. “Protecting me from Tony?”

Foggy’s skin is too warm. His lungs sound terrible. There’s a chair somewhere, isn’t there? Foggy needs to sit down.

Natasha’s footsteps make their way to his side, help move Foggy until he falls into the chair with a protesting sound. “Bruce hulked out. His funding was denied. Then Tony took him to a charity event, and I guess it was a combination of everything. There were some reporters. They said some nasty things about what happened today. It wasn’t the best way for him to find out. He didn’t break anything. Just roared a little then went off with Tony when he offered ice cream and jelly beans. The public and the news reacted about as well as they usually do when the hulk makes an appearance. Bruce is feeling guilty and Tony is feeling furious on his behalf.”

“What does this have to do with-” Foggy coughs. It sounds like he’s hacking up a lung. “Anything?”

“I was feeling really angry that day,” Bucky says, comprehension dawning in his voice. “Really really angry. My hearing’s coming up. The big one. Pepper’s lined up a whole load of TV appearances and it freaked me out.”

“Anger has a smell.” Foggy’s voice sounds about as bad as it did last night. “So what buddy? You’re reacting to the smell?”

Matt has no idea. All he knows is he aches and he’s way too tired for this conversation. There was a threat, and now there’s not. He’s all jumbled. He wants to sleep forever.

“Matt?” Natasha’s voice. Soft. “Did you know it was Tony when you reacted?”

It’s too many questions. It’s too much everything. There’s a door somewhere. He pushes away from Foggy’s side, tries to find it. His cane is somewhere. He had it when he came up here. He doesn’t know where it is now.

“Matt,” Claire says from over by the computer. “Make sure you put some ice on that shoulder. This scan is showing a lot of swelling. And take it easier on your ribs. Doctor Hans says it looks like you re-cracked one a week ago.”

His fingers find glass. Of course. The whole wall and door are glass. The door should be somewhere near here. He’s not sure exactly where. He debates the pros and cons of just curling up on the floor and going to sleep.

The sound of the door opening to his right. Natasha’s heartbeat. “Three paces to your right. I have your cane.”

Three paces to his right, fingers still trailing along the glass wall. The change in air flow that means open doorway. He holds out his hand. The handle of his cane is pressed into it.

“The elevator is through the door and about twenty feet to your left.” Her voice lowers until only he and her can hear it. “You want me to stop everyone asking questions until after you get some sleep?”

Somehow he finds the energy to nod.

“Bucky,” she calls over her shoulder. “Help Foggy. He’ll say he doesn’t need it, then he’ll walk into a wall.”

Claire’s voice stops asking Foggy questions. Foggy’s voice, rasping. “It was a door-frame. Doesn’t count.”

Matt navigates through the doorway with the cane, turns left. Walks forward, trying to remember how many paces twenty feet takes.

Natasha keeps pace with his left side. A smile in her voice like they’re having a normal conversation. “Clint is still hyped up over those people chasing the reporters away. He told me the story five times. I had to threaten his vents to make him stop.” A pause. “He’s a bit of a disaster. His brain to mouth filter is non-existent. I think that’s why he’s keeping his distance from you while you still have so many unknown triggers. But he really does care. I think there’s more than a little hero worship going on. Turn right. The elevator doors are already open.”

He turns right. His cane finds the opening of the elevator. He steps through the threshold onto metal. Leans against the back wall. His heads pounds. Bed. Soon there will be bed.

The doors don’t close until Bucky, Foggy, and Claire’s heartbeats join them.

Matt closes his eyes against the horrible flip his stomach does as the floor moves beneath them.

“The rib you re-cracked.” Tension in Foggy’s voice. Heartbeat too fast. The cloud of anger, spreading fast in the enclosed space. “Did Wright do that?”

It’s Foggy. He knows Foggy. But Foggy is also angry. Foggy isn’t supposed to be angry. He drops the cane, rubs at his face. He’s not wearing his glasses, and he’s not sure when that happened. His heart beats so fast he’s sure it’s about to jump out of his throat.

“Foggy.” An edge of steel to Natasha’s voice. “You either take a breath and calm down or take a different elevator.”

“This whole thing is fucked up!” Foggy’s heart beats angry. So angry. Movement as he shifts away from Bucky’s side. “Wright! Them showing the video without a warning. How the police still haven’t identified even one of the attackers. This isn’t the way the justice system is supposed to work!”

“Sorry.” Matt needs to make Foggy not angry. And this isn’t the way. He knows it isn’t the way. Foggy doesn’t like it when he apologises. But he is sorry. Matt caused this whole thing to happen. And he needs Foggy not to be mad at him. He _needs_ Foggy not to be mad. “Sorry. Sor-sorry. I. Sor- I.”

The elevator doors whoosh open. He jumps at the noise.

“Fuck!” Foggy screams. The sound is muffled like his hands are covering his mouth. His feet move away. They stumble a little. Natasha’s footsteps move quickly after him.

“Matt.” Claire’s voice. “I need you to take a deep breath for me. Can you do that?”

He takes a deep breath, loses it half way, takes another one.

Sam’s voice from down the hallway telling Foggy he’d warned him to rest, and he’d better “get your ass back in bed and eat your soup or there’ll be hell to pay.”

Natasha’s heartbeat doesn’t enter the apartment. Matt’s grateful for that.

“That’s good Matt.” Claire’s voice is warm, soft. “Another breath. This time try holding it. You’re OK.”

He’s not OK. Nothing about this is OK.

***

Matt collapses on top of his duvet and doesn’t move.

“I got him,” Bucky says to someone. Matt doesn’t bother finding out who.

Bucky’s footsteps are hesitant. “Need to take off your shoes pal.”

A pause before gentle pulling on his shoes. The sounds of laces being undone. Shoes slipping off his feet.

There are words he thinks before he’s being pulled into a sitting position. Bucky’s heartbeat beats through him as his jacket peels from around him. Fiddling that takes too long as his sling is removed to free the rest of his jacket, then slipped back on again. Today is sitting upright and breathing and questions. It’s panic and _them_ and Foggy being mad. It’s crowds of voices he doesn’t know talking about him.

The world is too big. He’s too small. It’s crushing him. Too many people. Too many expectations. He doesn’t want any of it.

Bucky’s heart beats with nerves as he wraps the ice-packs around his ribs. Loosens his tie.

Stop the world, he wants to get off. He wants everything to stop.

A skip in Bucky’s heartbeat. Hesitant breathing before the warm hand settles on the side of his face. The thumb moves, wiping at something. Wet. A tang of salt. Tears. He’s crying. He hadn’t noticed.

Everything aches. Everything is too much.

The cold hand removes his tie. Then the covers are being drawn back and he’s being moved onto the stack of pillows. Rolled onto his left side and slightly on his back. The only position that’s anywhere near comfortable with his injuries acting up. The pillows are stacked around him. Another icepack is pressed behind his right shoulder blade. The covers are pulled up to his chin, tucked around him like he’s a child.

The warm hand with Bucky’s heartbeat rests on his head. “You’re just tired pal. You’re just really really tired. You’ll feel better after some rest.”

Bucky must remove his hand at some point, but not before Matt falls asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

The world is too much when Foggy wakes him talking about supper, so Matt holds the duvet tight over his head until he goes away. There must be more sleep after that. He’s not sure. The line between sleep and wake blurs. Most of the time he drifts, not sure whether he’s awake or not.

There’s time and sleep and awake and everything in between. Questions. He ignores them.

Then the duvet is being wrenched away. He’s being hauled upright. And it’s terrible. It’s the rush of air surrounding him. It’s noise. Heartbeats, voices, everything. He struggles against Foggy’s hold, wanting to burrow under the duvet again.

Foggy’s arms are firm around him, keeping him sitting on the edge of the mattress. He could fight, but it’s Foggy. He doesn’t want to hurt Foggy. Why is Foggy doing this to him? Doesn’t he know how much it hurts sitting here in the world when he could be hidden away in his duvet? Is Foggy so mad that he wants to hurt him? A sob rips his throat.

“Shh.” Foggy’s hands pull him to a warm chest. His voice is still too raspy, and his lungs still sound wrong. “I know Matty. I don’t want to go to court either, but we have to buddy. We have to. You know how impossible it is for a defendant to take a sick day.”

The tears don’t stop. He doesn’t think they’ll ever stop until he’s hidden in the duvet again. His body’s too heavy. The world stabs at him like sharp knives. He doesn’t want to move. Why is Foggy making him move?

Foggy’s voice rumbles through him. “We’ll need to change his shirt. The rest can wait. If he calms down I’ll prompt him to change them before we go.”

***

.

Matt doesn’t calm down.

He sobs while Foggy holds him upright and Bucky’s hands remove his shirt, wipe some of the sweat smell off him, then put on a new shirt. Then there’s the jacket, the shoes, washing his face, the tie. If Steve notices the stray tears still leaking when he does up his tie, or the way Matt can’t seem to sit upright without leaning against something, he doesn’t comment.

At least they can’t make him eat or drink. There’s that.

Walking is impossible. He can’t believe they’re even asking him to do that. He pulls against Foggy’s hold until he manages to flop to the floor. Then he sits with his knees pulled up to his chest, hides his face in them, and prays they’ll leave him alone.

They don’t.

Bucky ends up carrying him down to the garage, bridal style like he did before. He should feel something about that he thinks. But all he feels is the discomfort as the air currents around him keep changing. The smells of cars and gasoline. Noises. He presses his hand tight over his ear, the other side of his head against Bucky’s shoulder. The heartbeat gives him something to focus on.

The air currents change again. A click and they’re inside a limo. There’s a faint scent of Marci’s perfume from when they last used it yesterday morning. Bucky sets him on the seat beside him, shifts like he’s going to move away. Matt’s hand grabs the other man’s jacket without his brain’s permission. Bucky stills, then relaxes back against him.

Bucky’s no duvet, but he’s the closet thing he has to one.

Foggy opens the car door next, saying something about the wheelchair being in the boot. He settles on Matt’s other side. Plastic and rubber covers Matt’s ears. The headphones.

Steve’s last. He settles in the seat opposite them and hands Foggy something. “Tony gave it to me when he wanted me to attend some outside event of his. It’ll be too big for him, but I thought-”

“No.” Foggy’s hands on him, trying to ease his fingers loose from the grip they have on Bucky’s jacket. “It’s perfect.”

Bucky spends several minutes massaging his hand before he’s tricked into letting go. His hand is guided through a giant sleeve lined with fleece at least as soft as his blanket. He allows himself to be shifted from where he’s somehow burrowed partway behind Bucky so they can wrap the other side around him. It’s soft and wonderful and takes a little of the edge off needing to hide.

***

Most of court is spent waiting.

They’re in a different location this time. Foggy explains why on the ride over. Matt doesn’t listen to all of it. Something about his location being compromised. Grand Jury locations have to be kept secret. Marci says more once they pick her up. She repeats herself several times, ranting. Foggy asks her to take a deep breath at a couple of points, telling her that Matt can smell anger and doesn’t like it.

He needn’t have bothered. Marci doesn’t smell of anger. Excitement in her voice maybe, frustration too. Not anger. A guard had been supposed to give them the message about the video, warning them and asking them to contact to discuss solutions if they thought it would be a problem. Marci made him admit he’d omitted the duty on purpose. He’d known who Matt was and wanted him to suffer. He had a brother in the police force who’d ended up in jail because of the Fisk thing.

Here Marci’s voice edges closer to anger. The guard said he didn’t think Matt would react as badly as he did. But the moment Matt had his panic attack, the guard was heard suggesting strongly that because Matt was ‘clearly violent’ he should be in jail instead of Tony Stark’s ‘cushy palace.’

“They suspended him,” she says, not sounding pleased. “I was pushing for them to fire him.”

The guards don’t take his headphones this time. They look at the medical note and take Foggy’s word that they’re not electronic. They’re allowed through, Matt in the wheelchair with Steve’s jacket around him. It’s a good jacket. The material is soft, not too stiff. It’s too big for him; the sleeve covering all of his hand so every bit of it is surrounded by the soft fleece inside. There’s a hood too that covers most of his face when Foggy pulls it up.

The new location has a room for them to wait in instead of a hallway. That’s good since there’s a lot of waiting. It’s not so good since they’re not the only ones waiting in the room.

Foggy helps him from the wheelchair to a chair and tells him about all the witnesses that are speaking in Matt’s defence today. Karen found a lot of witnesses. Some are character witnesses. People he saved unlinked to any of the incidences. A girl he pushed out of the way of a drunk driver. A woman who he’d saved when her fire escape collapsed underneath her while she was trying to reach her cat (he’d saved both woman and cat). An old man who’d had a heart attack walking home from work.

Most are related to the accusations of assault. Victims of the people he’d supposedly assaulted. Eyewitnesses to the crimes he was trying to stop. Brett will be talking too about how Matt had no choice but to resist arrest considering all the dirty cops around.

As the defendant he’s not allowed in the courtroom while his witnesses talk, but he still has to turn up while court is in progress. “A power play,” Marci calls it. Foggy says it’s just “bad organisation.”

Matt spends the time sitting with his knees to his chest, face hidden behind his legs and underneath the hood. The witnesses aren’t allowed to talk to them before they give their statement, but some of them come and find them afterwards.

“He’s feeling tired today,” Foggy tells them, sounding tired himself.

Some of them leave it at that. Others don’t.

Foggy’s footsteps have to move in the way of light quick ones when the girl comes to visit. Her body heat is small. Breath fast and excited.

“Sorry sweetheart,” Foggy says. “He doesn’t like being touched.”

There’s a frown in the girl’s voice. “I drew him a picture. I know he can’t see it, so I made the crayon extra thick so he can feel it.”

“Can I see it?” Steve’s voice. His body heat crouches down in front of Matt.

“No.” Even through the headphones Matt can hear the braids in her hair move as she shakes her head viciously. “It’s for Daredevil. He stopped that car from squishing me.”

Another patch of heat appears by the girl. This one much taller. A man’s voice. “PTSD?”

“Yeah.” Foggy’s voice. “Sorry. Could you back up a couple steps or crouch down? You’re a bit too looming.”

The heat comes from lower. Crouching down. It’s better. “Honey, Daredevil’s not feeling very well today. Why don’t you leave your picture here and he can look at it later.”

“But why?”

“Daredevil isn’t feeling well,” Steve says, his voice soft. “He’s got this condition called PTSD. Right now it means he’s feeling really sad and tired, and he just wants to curl up and be left alone for a while. Later when he’s feeling better he’ll love to look at the picture. I bet if your dad gives me his email Daredevil can send you a message and tell you thanks for the picture.”

A pause before the girl speaks again. “He should be at home hugged up to his toys. That’s what I do when I’m feeling poorly.”

A laugh from Foggy that turns into a coughing fit. “I’m with you on that one kid. Unfortunately the DA’s office isn’t as smart as you, so he has to stay here a while. He might get more sad if you touch him right now, but you can talk to him if you want. Describe your picture. I bet he’d like that.”

There’s a shyness to the girl’s voice when she talks again. “I drew a picture Daredevil. Of you and me and Daddy. Not Mommy because she let me play outside too late and didn’t look after me good and I almost got runned over by a car. I live with Daddy now and that’s good. I used half my red crayon to make you extra red. And my dress is blue. And Daddy’s wearing pink because real men wear pink. And the sun is extra yellow because Daddy says going outside in the sunshine is important. Can you give it to him?”

Rustling of paper. Steve’s voice. “I’ll make sure he gets it.”

“I’m real happy you made the car not squish me. It was scary. But you hugged me and said it was OK. And you took off the scary mask. Your hair was all sticking up, it was funny, and your eyes were extra pretty. And you took me home and told me to call Daddy. And now everything is really nice, and that wouldn’t have happened if the car had squished me. So thank you lots and lots.”

“Yeah,” the man’s voice by her side says. Wet in his voice. Upset. “Thanks so much.”

Other people trickle in every now and again. Most of them recognise Steve or Bucky before they recognise Matt. Some recognise Foggy which Matt hopes means Karen sent them a photo or they’d looked their names up on the Internet and found pictures. Anything that doesn’t involve the media splashing around Foggy’s face over all this the way it did Matt’s.

Some offer thank yous. Some are tearful. Some hope that he feels better soon. One elderly man just says “Jesus kid what did they do to you?” Then spends ten minutes interrogating Foggy, Bucky, and Steve about what they’re feeding him, and making suggestions about what medications might help. Weed comes up a lot. Which considering Matt’s pretty sure this is the pharmacist he protected from a drug seeker is a little odd.

Every now and then Foggy tries to get him to drink something. Matt always refuses.

Then it’s time to move again, and that’s terrible. The air feels like needles when they make him raise his head from his knees. Foggy’s hands try to get him to shift off the chair. His body is usually easy to manoeuvre. Graceful. He’s always aware of where every part of his body is, and can navigate them through the world around him with ease. Now all the piece of his body feel like lumps of dead meat disconnected from the rest of him. It’s disorientating.

All of his weight slumps against Foggy before he’s placed in the wheelchair. The wheelchair is less solid than the chair. It moves. The air currents around him change. He doesn’t like it. He tries to pull his legs up onto the seat, but it’s difficult. The seat beneath him is a stretched piece of leather. It’s hard to find the leverage he needs when he’s so disorientated.

Finally he manages to grip the armrest through the sleeve of the jacket and wrench his legs up, but it takes too long. By the time his face is pressed into his knees again his nerves are all jangly. Everything’s too intense and loud and there. The wheelchair doesn’t stop moving. It makes his head spin.

He grips his legs tight with his fleece covered arm and hums. He does this every now and then. Not often. It’s rarer than the rocking he thinks. It’s hard to tell. Sometimes the rocking just happens, and sometimes the humming does too. It’s a constant noise. A vibrating hum that travels all through his body if he gets it right. Something to concentrate on away from the chaotic world around him. Something he can control.

Foggy’s voice, sounding a lot more distant than it did before now that he’s humming. “What? You’ve never seen someone stim before? Move along lady. Go do the world a favour and google autism. Educate yourself.”

A pause. Bucky’s voice sounding curious. “Is he autistic?”

“No clue,” Foggy says flippantly. “But you’ve got to admit there are a lot of similarities.

***

“Is he OK?” ADA Wilson’s nasal voice. Maybe concern in the tone. It’s hard to be sure when Matt’s concentrating on humming.

Tension at Matt’s left side. The smell of anger leeching from Foggy. “No Ed, he’s not OK. He still hasn’t recovered from the panic attack your bright idea made him have.”

“That was a misunderstanding caused by that guard that Miss Stahl flushed out. I never meant for that to happen.” Wet in Wilson’s voice. Upset? “I thought since you didn’t get in touch that you would be fine with the video. I wasn’t planning on playing it in front of him if he thought he couldn’t take it. Christ. I just. I never thought he’d be this bad. Are you sure he’s mentally fit-”

“No, but he’s never going to be fit if he’s taken away to Kirby to test that.” Steel in Foggy’s voice. That stench of anger. Matt doesn’t like the anger. “Right now he has a better therapist than he could ever get there. He has people who care about him. He was fit enough to understand before your stunt with the video, and he’ll be fit enough once he’s given time to recover. I’m not going to let you take him away from me.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” Matt can’t hear his heart, but Wilson sounds truthful. “Foggy I wouldn’t do that.”

“Foggy,” Marci says sharply. “Take a deep breath. You’re too angry.”

“Right. Right.” Foggy takes a deep breath. The anger fades from the room. “Matty. Matty. It’s OK. I’m not mad.”

Foggy’s hand touches his shoulder. Matt flinches away. He hums louder through gritted teeth. He’s shaking.

***

The bed is relief. It’s a cold glass of water on the hottest day. It’s the news he passed with an A+ after worrying after an exam.

A bottle of water is pressed into his hand. He drops it. He doesn’t want that. He just wants to sleep.

Voices and questions and Foggy’s hands on his head. He fumbles with the duvet, pulls it over his head.

Sharp pain in his left arm. He can’t find the energy to do more than blink. Claire’s voice. “If you’re going to refuse to take your pills this is what’s going to happen.” She grips his hand long after the cool liquid stops flowing through his veins, taking away from the firmness in her words.

There are snatches. Foggy pulling the blanket away and lifting his head. Cool water dripping over his clenched lips and down his chin. Words. There are words. The smell of anger and Foggy leaving the room. Steve taking his place and speaking words that make no sense.

Bucky holding him upright while Foggy changes his clothes. The wheelchair, not big enough to curl up in now that he doesn’t have the energy to raise his legs. He slumps his head to the side instead, tries to block the world out.

The car and Marci and questions. Headphones tight over his ears. The fleece lined jacket surrounding him. Court with its familiar smells that feel like knives. Voices. A lot of voices. Time, thick and suffocating.

His skin against leather before he registers he’s back in the tower. The smell of the communal lounge around him. His fleece blanket beneath his head. His duvet folded heavy over him. Claire’s voice again with another stab, this one on the back of his hand. The tugging sensation of an IV. “Don’t you even think about pulling that out.” Again she holds his hand.

Fiona’s voice. “He can’t catch his breath. Think about it. Every time he’s resting, trying to come down from being overwhelmed he’s forced into a stressful environment. He needs to recharge. He’s showing symptoms similar to catatonic depression. There are medications that have proved successful, but since he’s been so against them in the past I’d prefer to give him a chance to recover without them. You have two days without court, right?”

“Yeah.” Foggy’s voice. Exhausted. “We have the weekend. Then a full day of court on Monday, and probably only part of the day on Tuesday.”

“From what you’ve told me I suspect he had depression before the attack, which explains why his depressive symptoms are so strong. It’s another thing we’ll have to work on. For now try the things you think worked in his similar episodes. If you’re not seeing progress by the end of the weekend we’ll have to talk about whether to give him medication against his wishes.”

Time passes. Foggy tries to get him to drink. He refuses. Every now and then he asks if he needs to go to the bathroom. Matt allows Foggy to haul him into the wheelchair, remind him of the steps he needs to take that he keeps forgetting. Every movement is painful. By the time he returns to the couch he's so exhausted he falls asleep without pulling the duvet over his head.

Voices. Sam's saying "Foggy you're not going to be any use to him if you don't look after yourself. Come on man. Sit down and eat something. You're still getting over that bug of yours."

Clint whining "Is he going to feel better soon?"

Bruce's voice, soft and a little tired. "He'll feel better when he feels better. You know that."

"I know. I just miss him is all. And I want someone to tell him about the game-show."

Sam's voice further away. The smell of fried vegetables and chicken. "Why don't you tell him yourself?"

A self depreciating note in Clint's voice. "Because I know I can be overwhelming when I'm excited, and I'm very excited. And I don't want to say something wrong and make him hate me. I really don't want him to hate me Sam."

"Take a deep breath. Go over his trigger list. As long as you keep your distance and try to stick to the list, you're doing the best you can. No one can ask more than that."

"But-"

"No buts. You can't keep avoiding him forever. We'll tell you if you need to back off for a bit." Shuffling. The clink of ceramic. "I'm going to take these up to Steve and Bucky. Hopefully some real food will help Bucky get more even again. You tell Matt about it."

Long minutes, then Clint starts talking. There's lots of movement and sound effects. Matt doesn't pick up on all of it. What he gets is that Clint, Bucky, and Steve filmed a game-show that evening and Clint is very enthusiastic about it.

Bucky apparently was quiet at first. Then the host dared to enquire what he thought about people who think 'My Little Pony' is a kids show and after heatedly defending the show, Bucky had been 'awesome' according to Clint. Making witty one liners, sarcastic comments, and bickering with Steve and Clint.

They'd been given footage of the show to take home with them. A very rough version that would be cleaned up before they aired it. Clint plays his favourite clips, narrating the parts Matt can't hear.

There's one part that catches Matt's ears even through the haze. The host asks how Matt is recovering after Wednesday. Steve makes a very charming answer, saying that they're doing their best to help him through it, and they're grateful for all the help and support received from members of the public.

Then the host asks what their opinions of their new house-mate are. Clint on the show goes on too long about how awesome his parkour moves are and how "he didn't get orders you know. Not like most of the good we do. No one told him to do what he did. He just saw a bad situation and decided he could help people. So he did. The world I grew up in always had people beating on other people who couldn't defend themselves. Men, women, kids. And everyone turned a blind eye. When I was a kid and my dad boxed my ears so many times I went deaf I told people what he was doing to us. They either ignored me or made it worse. But Daredevil saw all this injustice and actually did something about it instead of sitting on his hands like everyone else. That's kind of amazing."

Steve says with a sappy smile in his voice that he's "just the sweetest kid, you know?"

Bucky's quiet for a while after he's asked. Then he says in a voice that sounds like honesty "he's my friend" as if that explains everything.

***

Time. A lot of time. Matt spends it in his bed, the duvet over his head, trying to stay as still as possible. Moving is painful. It's like if he doesn't move nothing exists, not the world around him, not himself. Then he moves and he has to be aware of the feelings in his body, the way the world around him scrapes at his skin. It's horrible.

A bathroom trip ends with Foggy wheeling him to the shower instead of his bed. The splatter of water against plastic. The curl of steam around him. "Come on bud. You'll feel better."

He's still wearing clothes from court, now rumpled and sweat stained. Foggy helps him out of them, wraps his arm. Does something that makes the glass doors of the shower slide against each other and click. Then manoeuvres the entire wheelchair under the shower spray. A grinding noise as he puts the brakes on.

Matt manages a half hearted wash with Foggy pressing a flannel doused with soap into his hand. Foggy does his hair, rubbing shampoo into it and making jokes about how he should get paid for this, and wondering if his cousin Robin might hire him as a hairdressing assistant if the lawyer thing goes sour. Every now and then he reminds Matt what he's supposed to be doing.

Then there's cool air, fluffy towels, and warm soft clothes. Sweatpants and a hoodie at least a couple sizes too big. The duvet folded heavy on his lap.

Change of air and movement. Going somewhere he realises only when they're in the elevator. Going somewhere other than his bed. Part of him wishes he had the energy to protest.

Voices that stop when the elevator doors whoosh open. Movement. The leather couch and fleece blanket. The duvet heavy over him. Tugging on his hand as the IV is put back in place.

"Still not drinking?" Bruce's voice asks from close by.

"Or talking or moving or doing anything." The couch cushions move as Foggy sits down heavily.

Shifting. An object hanging over him. Smells like plastic and water. "The saline will stop him getting too dehydrated. We can give him his meds through the IV. He's in no immediate danger. You have time."

"Yeah." Skin against skin as Foggy rubs his face. "You don't mind us here, right? I mean, I know this cuts down on what movies you get to choose from."

Sam's voice from the kitchen. The smell of something chocolaty. "Don't start on that man. Therapy nights are our family nights, and like it or not Foggy Nelson, we have officially adopted you and Matt into that family.

***

Singing. Lots of singing.

Foggy's off-key notes. Clint's even more off-key notes. Sam's smooth tones. Steve's practised voice. Bucky's rough voice that curls the words and makes them sound alive. Natasha's rich tones. Bruce's voice quiet and shy. Tony's voice, enthusiastic and not terrible. Pepper's voice high and sweet.

Music from the television. Energetic movement. Dancing? A dancing game? Laughter.

Laughter from Clint over by the armchairs. "And it's head and head between former Lindy Hop champion Bucky Barnes and Natasha Romanov whose dancing victories are too top secret to disclose. Who will leave the winner, and who will just leave?"

From the grumbling that follows Matt's pretty sure Bucky lost.

The smell of pizza. Lots of different toppings. Cheese, various kinds of meat, barbecue sauce, grilled vegetables.

Foggy's hand on his head. "Come on buddy, you going to drink something?"

A movie playing. Something. He doesn't know what.

Foggy shifting his blanket, lying down next to his stack of pillows. "Sorry guys, you are about to see two grown men hug."

A snort from Tony. "Have you seen the level of physical affection that goes on between Captain America and Robocop, or me and Brucie for that matter? I think we can handle it."

His head leaning against Foggy's shoulder. The heartbeat is comforting.

Conversations. Voices. Movement. Smells. Time.

He sits up.

His fleece blanket where his head had been. The smell of the leather couch around him. Something heavy over his waist and legs. A blanket of some kind. Thick and heavy. Smells like plastic. Some kind of beads inside it like a beanbag?

The weight is comforting. The pressure is spread evenly over him. A constant that blocks all other sensations out. It's like a long firm hug.

There are vague memories echoing in his head. Moving from the communal lounge to his bed and back again. Conversations going on around him. Not wanting to move.

Footsteps. Warmth that stops by the coffee table. Fabric against wood as the person sits down. Sam's voice. "Hey Matt. Nice to see you up. We were worried. You want some water?"

Matt tries to swallow. It hurts. His throat is red raw. He nods. The act makes him dizzy.

"OK man. Wait a sec." Shifting. The sound of water pouring into a plastic container. A cup? "Here. I've only put a little bit in. You need to go slow."

His hand shakes as he raises it to his mouth. There's resistance and warmth that suggests Sam is steadying it. There's less than a mouthful. He downs it, chokes, manages to swallow it.

"That's good Matt. That's really good." Sam's heart beats steady. Truth. "Want some more?"

That little bit of water sits uneasily in his stomach, but he nods his head. His throat really hurts.

The sound of pouring water. The cup is pressed into his hand again. This time he's a little more steady raising it to his lips.

The sound of ringing from Sam's hand. It stops and Foggy's voice comes through it, on speaker so Matt doesn't have to concentrate. "What's wrong?"

A smile in Sam's voice. "He's sitting up. He's drinking."

"You're kidding me?" Shock in Foggy's voice. "You better not be kidding me Wilson."

"I'm going to warm up some of his soup and see if he can manage that. Take your time getting ready."

"Yeah, not going to happen. I'll be down in five minutes."

The pulling sensation is gone from the back of his hand. The IV isn't there. The needle is gone too. He can feel the veins swollen and bruised.

Sam must say something about more water, because the next thing he knows the cup is being filled again. "You haven't eaten anything in a long time. Think you can manage some of your soup?"

Matt's not sure. The thought of food makes his stomach roll. But maybe that's because he hasn't eaten in a while. He's gone without food before, and there's a certain nausea that comes with it that doesn't go away until after you start eating again.

Sam's footsteps come from the kitchen. The hum of the microwave.

The elevator doors whoosh open. Foggy's fast footsteps. "Sorry Sam, I need to try talking to him."

"No problem." Sam's footsteps move towards the elevator. "Soup's heating up."

"Matty." The cushion jumps as Foggy sits next to his hip. A lot of wet in Foggy's voice, but less of it is congestion. His body heat is about normal. Less gunk in his lungs. How long was Matt out of it? "Hey. It's so good to talk with you again." A hand with Foggy's heartbeat rests on his shoulder. Another takes away the cup he'd forgotten he was still holding.

Matt shifts, leaning against the stack of pillows. Sitting upright without support is exhausting.

"How are you feeling? Can you give me a number?"

Matt raises two fingers. He's not sure. Things seem kind of detached and far away. Maybe about two.

"Tony made you this."

Something shaped like a tablet is placed in his lap. About the size of Karen's tablet, but a little thicker. But when he brushes his hand over it, the screen is only along the top, a few centimetres thick. Most of the rest is keyboard, braille on each of the keys. At the very bottom is a refreshable braille display. There's a wire attached to the side. Ear-buds.

"He made it sturdy. The only thing you might break if you throw it is the headphones, and they're easy enough to replace. Or someone's face. You could break someone's face if you throw it at them, so don't do that. The screen is so you can use it to communicate with other people, but you can also browse the Internet, make documents, do whatever. You've got a braille display and screen reader. This way you can use your voice to communicate, or this, or the PECS book. Whichever is easiest for you."

Matt runs his fingers over the keys. This and the headphones. He doesn't have the energy to analyse why Tony Stark is giving him two incredibly thoughtful presents within the same amount of weeks. He helped with Bucky's present too. It's too much to think about right now, so he points at the blanket that smells like plastic covering his legs.

"That?" A smile in Foggy's voice. Still some of that wet there. "It's called a weighted blanket. Bruce's idea. Do you like it?"

He nods. It's strange. Being weighed down isn't something he's thought he'd like, but the even pressure across his legs is soothing.

"I thought so. We tried it yesterday. You looked relaxed. Before you were just kind of rigid, even when you were asleep. Bruce suggested it on Saturday and of course he and Tony got obsessed and within an hour they'd custom ordered a silk one from the same place that made Bruce's. Apparently it's a big thing for autism and sensory issues. Something about the deep pressure helping."

The deep pressure does help. It makes sense now that he thinks about it. He's always preferred Foggy's firm hugs to the horrible feather light touches some people give him.

"Listen buddy, we have to talk. You can use your voice, or the computer, or here, I've got the PECS book." Shifting as Foggy takes something plastic out of something fabric. He sets the plastic on his lap. Crinkling of paper too. "I know it's a lot to spring on you right now. And if you still can't decide, that's OK. We'll hold off for now. But I'd like to talk about that thing we discussed."

A piece of paper set on Matt's lap. He wanders his fingers over it. His stomach twists. It's the choice from before. Does he continue without medication, does he take the antidepressant suggested, or does he take the antidepressant and sedatives in the event of bad attacks.

"Remember, any one you pick is the right one. And just because you pick one doesn't mean you can't change your mind later. It's just. You were out of it for a long time. Five days buddy. We had to - we had to give you an IV because you weren't drinking. Apparently benzodiazepines - that's the sedative - might've helped you break out of it. We were talking about deciding for you. We weren't sure what you wanted. We were going to try it anyway tomorrow after Grand Jury ends, in case you did end up having a bad reaction. And me and Fiona felt really bad about making that decision for you. So if it happens again I'd really like to know what you'd want us to do."

Matt doesn't know what he wants them to do. He doesn't know what he wants. Five days is a long time. Almost a whole week. He can't believe he lost all that time. But there's something else in Foggy's words. Something that makes his arm tremble.

"Hey Matty, it's OK. You don't want to decide this now?" Foggy's arm wraps around him.

Matt shakes his head. He doesn't want to decide. He doesn't want to.

Foggy's arms surround him. A gentle kiss pressed to his temple. "That's fine buddy. That's fine. We'll shelve this for now. I'll get your soup. Just read over the benefits for me so you have them fresh in your head, but you don't have to make any kind of decision today."

Matt passes his fingers over the words. It takes a few attempts before they start making any kind of sense. Foggy comes back with the soup and waits until he's finished. Then the cup is pressed into his hand, and he's praised for every sip he takes.

"You sure you're done?" Foggy asks once a little under half the cup of soup is gone.

Matt nods. His stomach churns, but the soup is mostly water. He thinks he can hold onto it.

"OK buddy. You did really good. We've got ten minutes before we need to go to the garage, but I'd like to head off early if that's OK. There's going to be less waiting around today, and I want to make sure you have enough time to adjust." Scraping of wood against ceramic as the soup is set on the coffee table.

Court. It's already Monday, and he already has to go back to court. His chest is too tight. He shakes his head.

"What is it? Come on buddy, tell me."

The words choke in his throat, which is wrong because it's only Foggy here. He should be able to speak to Foggy. The PECS book is easiest to use. Different enough from his usual communication that it has less bad associations attached to it, but it doesn't have the words he needs to say. His hand finds the small computer instead. He finds the words.

'No court.'

Court is industrial cleaner, the glue stink of cheap carpets, the whine of cheap lighting. It's voices talking about the things he did as if they're all crimes that tell everyone how horrible a person he is. It's the weight of people staring and whispers behind his back. It's _them_ appearing out of nowhere. It's jeering, laughter, and panic.

He doesn't want to go.

More wet in Foggy's voice. Upset. "Matty, we have to go. This is our last full day. Tomorrow it'll be finishing. And it'll be fine. You won't have to talk or interact or anything. Steve has a lot of meetings today so he can't come with us, but Bucky's coming. You'll have your headphones and Steve's fleece jacket, you remember that? You liked it. You'll be fine."

He shakes his head. He won't be fine.

"Come on Matt please." Foggy's voice breaks. "Don't make this more difficult than it has to be. Less than two days then it's finished. We'll take the wheelchair. You won't even have to move, not one bit. I'll count down the time for you, like we do at the dentist. It'll be over before you know it, then we can come back here and you can do whatever you want."

Matt wiggles out from under the weighted blanket. His chest is too tight. It's difficult to breathe. Pulling away from Foggy, he swings his legs over the couch, pushes himself to his feet and immediately collapses.

His legs clip the bottom of the wheelchair, causing it to roll backwards. Foggy's arms catch him before he can fall any further, lowering him carefully to the carpet.

The world is too big. Everything is too much. His heart beats rabbit fast, feeling like it's trying to burst out of his chest. His limbs cycle between numb and tingling sensation. His hand hits out, finding the wood of the coffee table.

The elevator doors whoosh open. Two sets of footsteps. One uneven, one not.

Foggy's fingers wrap around his wrist. They hold on tight. "You are not doing that Matt! You've only got one hand and it's already bruised to hell."

His muscles are too tense. It's too much. He needs to make it stop. Twisting away from Foggy he tries to raise his arm. If he can get it high enough he can bite before Foggy can stop him. Maybe he does need to go to court, but he can't when his whole body is screaming at him. He needs to find a way to dial down his emotions. He needs to not feel so much. He needs to not hurt so much.

Unfortunately Foggy knows him.

Foggy's arms wrap around him like a vice, pinning his arm to his side. His head is against Foggy's neck. He knows a dozen ways to get out of the hold, but none of them guarantee that Foggy won't get hurt. All he can do is twist side to side, trying to get his arm free.

The sound of something dragging against carpet. The coffee table being moved out of his reach. "What's the problem?" Bucky's voice.

"He doesn't want to go to court." A choked sob in Foggy's voice. One that disappears the next time he speaks, chased away by firmness. "Matt you know we can't put it off."

He knows. He knows, but he doesn't want to go. Court isn't safe. Court is out there, and out there isn't safe. He screams his frustration into Foggy's shoulder.

"Matt! If you don't calm down we're going to have to talk about sedatives again!" Foggy's heart beats faster.

It takes a few more screams before he's able to force himself to take deep breaths instead. He stops twisting in Foggy's grip, though he can't stop his arm from tensing under the hold. All that tension coils tight inside him, needing to be let out.

Fabric shifting as someone. Sam? Crouches down. "It might help if you let us know what you're feeling Matt."

"Let's try that, OK buddy? Please." Foggy rubs circles in his back before pulling away.

The small computer is placed in his lap along with the PECS book. He pushes away the computer. He doesn't have patience to type out words right now. He'll just end up throwing it. He rocks, back and forth, PECS book still closed in his lap. His hand fists at his hair.

"We're not doing that Matt." Foggy's hand works his fingers loose. The PECS book disappears from his lap for a moment before appearing back again with the pages spread open. "Rocking's good. You can rock, but I need you to stop hurting yourself. Now Matty please, answer this one thing."

His fingers move over the emotions. There are a lot of them. More than one fits what he thinks he's feeling. Maybe scared, overwhelmed, or frustrated. But the best fit is anxious. He rips the card off, tosses it to Foggy, doesn't stop rocking.

Foggy's heart skips. Surprise. "Thanks for telling me Matty. Proud of you buddy. Can you tell me why you're anxious? Maybe there's something we can do to help?"

The cards are easier than talking or typing. The words are already there. He has to choose between them, which is still difficult, but he doesn't have to search for them within a mind that spontaneously forgets all words. He turns to the objects page. The card he wants is near the bottom. He hands it to Foggy. 'People.'

"OK," Foggy says evenly. "How about if me and Bucky promise you won't have to interact with any people. Anyone comes up to you we'll field it and keep them away. Will that help?"

Matt shrugs his shoulder, trying to ignore the relief the words give him. It's not like this is anything new. It's what they were doing before automatically. But there's a big difference between knowing they've kept people away in the past, and having a guarantee they'll keep people away in the future. His hand moves to grip his hair.

"Buddy, not doing that, remember."

Right. He drops his hands, trying to push the frustration away. Foggy doesn't like him hurting himself, but he doesn't mind the rocking. Bucky doesn't seem to mind either. So maybe they won't mind if he... He opens and closes his hands rhythmically, which inevitably leads to contorting his fingers into strange shapes, which quickly leads to loosening his wrist and jerking his arm back and forth in small movements so his hand flaps and his thumb and fingers knock against each other.

No skip in Foggy's heart.

Still, he stops feeling self conscious despite the anxiety running through him. Heat rises to his cheeks.

Foggy snorts. "Come on bud, I've seen you hand flap before. You think you're so secretive, but you're not. You do it all the time when you're overtired and talking about something that makes you really excited or really frustrated. Unless you have your cane, then you tend to fiddle with that. You also do this little bounce when you're really happy or excited. I'm trying to think of other things you do. Oh, you organise. You line up our dinosaurs and kind of run your fingers over them. You rock side to side when you're standing or lying down. Then there's the humming, which, yes you've done before, usually when you're trying to fall asleep. Then there's that mad texture love/hate thing you have going on. All of the above are Foggy approved stimming methods. You can do any of them. I don't know who told you you couldn't, but they're wrong. And all of them are a million times better than you hurting yourself."

It’s strange to have someone who knows all the parts of yourself you keep hidden, and who likes you anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve's opinion on Matt is inspired by the actor's opinion on Bucky's actor in an interview I saw once.
> 
> Oh! This fic received its very first fanart from the wonderful guardianstar. Go see 
> 
> http://shiro-no-okami.deviantart.com/art/Matt-and-Bucky-596422287?ga_submit_new=10%253A1457896600


	20. Chapter 20

He’s had worse days. But it’s hard to remember that when he’s finally lying on the couch again that afternoon, dressed in a fresh pair of sweatpants and hoodie, and trembling so constantly that he has a hard time telling where all the parts of his body are.

Foggy pulls the weighted blanket up to his waist. Then he takes Matt’s hand. He’s been holding his hand a lot today. Foggy seems to have decided he won’t allow Matt to hurt himself. And hurting himself is something hard to remember not to do, because it works.

Bucky, Foggy, and even Marci made sure he didn’t have to interact with anyone, but court is still too loud, and too many people, and too much. Part of him wonders if it was the idea of court making him anxious more than the reality. The limo ride down had been the worst part. With Foggy holding him and telling him ‘it’s OK’ a hundred times while Bucky massaged his hand, after he couldn’t stop hitting his head.

Then there was being wheeled inside, curling up and humming when the wood polish, too many people smells hit him. Then the court room itself and the talking about him and not being able to leave. Foggy holding his hand after he tried to bite his fingers, and folding up his jacket and placing it on Matt’s knees when he slammed his head into them.

He doesn’t do this stuff in front of other people. But everything is too much. Lately it feels like his nerves are constantly on fire, and it’s too much. He wants it to stop.

Pepper’s voice from one of the armchairs. A soft tone. “How did it go?”

“Don’t ask.” Skin against skin as Foggy rubs his face. His heartbeat is a little too fast. “But it’s over. We survived.”

“I’m thinking a hammock,” Tony’s voice says abruptly from the other armchair. “Rocking’s his kind of motion, right? We can put it in here. Hang it from the ceiling. I’ll hook it up to some kind of system. Give him a remote so he can change speed, direction, whatever. It’ll be cool.”

“Hey!” Clint calls from the smaller couch. “You gotta make it red, like his suit.”

Tony snorts. “Well duh.”

“Oh.” Shifting as Clint sits upright on the couch. Which means that before he was leaning. Against Bucky? “With black shapes on it. Something he likes. What does he like?”

Paper against paper as Bucky turns a page of his book. His voice is almost too quiet for normal people to hear. “He likes dinosaurs.”

“OK.” Movement. Tony doing something with one of his electronics? “A red hammock with black dinosaur silhouettes. I can make them slightly different textures so he can feel them. What do you think?”

“Matty?” Foggy sounds exhausted. “What do you think? I can’t remember seeing you try a hammock before. Think you’ll like it?”

Matt’s whole body keeps trembling. The weighted blanket across his legs is good. It gives him some level of comfort. But his nerves are stretched thin like a piano wire. Being on edge all the time is more exhausting than a rough night of patrolling. But his mind can’t decide if it’s safe enough to rest.

A sigh. Foggy’s hand settles on his head. Matt doesn’t have the energy to flinch. “Go to sleep bud. You did good today. We got through it, and I promise the rest of the day will be completely stress free. Nothing needs to happen that you don’t want to happen.”

Foggy’s hand combs through his hair, staying close enough to his skin that Matt doesn’t lose track of his heartbeat. It’s nice. Moments after he hears Bucky suggest the hammock be more of a cocoon shape so Matt can hide in it, he falls asleep.

***

Pain is the first thing he’s aware of when he wakes. Less than a heartbeat after comes terror, so thick it feels like he’s drowning in it. It takes several seconds for him to realise someone is screaming. It’s several seconds after that he realises he’s the one screaming.

“It’s OK Matty. It’s OK.” Foggy’s voice. His heat a little way in front of Matt. “Someone move this damn coffee table.”

Fabric shifting. Muscles tensing. Wood moving against carpet as the coffee table is set down. There’s the sound of that strange metal against wood. Bucky is there.

“Wow.” Tony’s voice from the other side of the coffee table. Heartbeat too fast. “What can we do to help?”

“Nothing.” Foggy sounds defeated. “Night terror. Waking him up might make it worse. There’s nothing we can do but wait it out. It shouldn’t last more than fifteen minutes tops.”

“Wow,” Tony says again. The armchair protesting as he sits down heavily.

Carpet underneath him. Leather to his right. He’s on the floor. Avengers tower. Communal lounge. On the floor by the large couch. Curling towards the bottom of the couch, he covers his mouth with his palm, trying to choke off the screaming. His hand aches. Not too badly. Another bruise to add to his collection.

A skip in Foggy’s heartbeat. “Matt are you awake?”

The screaming cuts off finally, but the fear is still there. Gripping his sweatpants tight, he nods. He’s shaking. It’s hard to remember the last time he wasn’t shaking.

“You know where you are?”

He nods. Avengers tower. Communal lounge. Foggy’s here and. He frowns, tucking his knees to his chest and rocking just a little as he tries to focus in on the others. Behind him is blueberries and paper with Pepper’s heartbeat. Blueberries and engine grease and Tony’s heartbeat. Dog and coffee and Clint’s heartbeat by the smaller sofa. The stink of dog and lavender shampoo and Lucky’s heartbeat. Leather and heated plastic and Bucky’s heartbeat.

The task takes his mind off the fear a little, but he can still taste it thick on his tongue. It clenches at his heart and makes his chest ache. His hand grips his hair tight enough to hurt.

“Matty please.” Foggy’s hand closes over his, works his fingers loose. Wet in his voice. A note of frustration too. “You know I hate you doing that. New rule. You think you’re about to hurt yourself, give me your hand and I’ll hold it until it passes.”

There’s a problem with that. The feeling doesn’t just pass. He hurts himself when he’s too tense, or to stop him thinking about something he doesn’t want to think about. He concentrates on his breathing instead, tries to let that be enough.

“You had a bad dream buddy. Just a bad dream. Do you remember what it was about?”

Vague sensations that he can’t pin down. All he remembers is being scared. He shakes his head, concentrates on Foggy’s heartbeat. Panic keeps clawing at his chest. He scans the room again. Foggy, Pepper, Tony, Bucky, Clint, Lucky. No one else. Nothing else.

Foggy’s voice lowers. “Just a feeling?”

He nods. His body shakes. His head spins enough that’s it’s difficult to gauge where he is exactly in space. It almost feels like he’s falling. Things around him are there. He can sense them. But at the same time they seem more detached than they usually do. It doesn’t seem so far fetched that the carpet beneath him could open up at any moment and drag him away from here, back into whatever horror made his throat feel so dry. He shifts closer to Foggy, stops. What is he doing?

“Hey.” The last of the frustration leaves Foggy’s voice, making it soft and cautious. “You want to come here?”

Matt sits back down on the carpet, unsure. He has Foggy’s hand around his. That should be enough. He’s an adult. Stick trained him to be a soldier. Foggy’s hand should be more than enough. He’s being stupid. The ground isn’t going to open up. He’s not going to be dragged away. Maybe if he repeats it enough times he’ll believe it and stop shaking.

He wishes Foggy would let him have his hand back. He could knock some sense into his skull.

Fabric against carpet as Foggy moves closer. Foggy’s other hand cups the back of his neck and tugs him towards the other man’s shoulder. Matt doesn’t resist. Warmth. Foggy’s smell. Foggy’s heartbeat wrapping around him. “Sounds like a night terror. So I guess things are going to feel pretty terrifying for a bit. Falling from the couch must’ve jolted you awake. Want me to distract you with some terrible jokes?”

Matt leans his head against Foggy’s shoulder, focuses on drawing a shaky breath.

Foggy’s hand rubs his back. The pressure makes him realise how tightly coiled he is right now. “Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl going to the bathroom?” A pause. “Because the ‘P’ is silent!”

“Where do you find a turtle with no legs?” Pepper says from the armchair. “Right where you left it.”

“You’re using a website you cheating cheat,” Tony says. “No wait. Don’t get off the website, I want to see. Hah. Got one. Did you hear about the two guys that stole a calender?” A dramatic sounding pause. “They each got six months.”

“That was terrible,” Clint says, sounding impressed. “But I can do one better without cheating. Ready? What’s blue and smells like red paint?” He taps a dramatic drum roll on what sounds like Bucky’s book. “Blue paint.”

Bucky groans.

A smile in Clint’s voice. “Let’s see you do better.”

“A horse walks into a bar. The bartender says why the long face?” Bucky says in a deadpan voice. “The horse replies: my alcoholism is destroying my family.”

Clint giggles. “Terrible. I can’t decide whose is the most terrible.”

They trade bad jokes back and forth for a while. Pepper and Tony even put aside their electronic things after Bucky and Clint double dog dare them to try it without cheating. Pepper has an impressive memory for terrible jokes. Matt concentrates on their voices, Foggy’s heartbeat, and the circles Foggy rubs into his back. Eventually his breathing comes easier. That clawing panic subsides to the back of his mind. He stops shaking.

Foggy asks him what number he’s on a few times. When he gets to two fingers, Foggy asks if he’d like to play a game.

“Your favourite card game. Memory. Want to see if I’ve improved at all?”

Matt nods, still feeling a little dazed. It’s hard to sit up for too long, so when Foggy pulls away to set up the cards on the coffee table, Matt leans back against the bottom of the couch. He sips at the water Foggy gave him, drinking slowly. It’s the first water he’s drunk since this morning, and his throat doesn’t seem to know what to do with it. He chokes on the first few sips, rubbing at his sore throat before his body seems to remember how to drink properly.

“Matt?” Clint asks. His rabbit fast heart flutters with nerves. “Is it OK if Lucky comes to see you? He’s worried.”

Matt nods shakily, setting the water bottle down and somehow managing to put the lid back on. He’s not sure how he feels about all this. Too many people are seeing too many pieces of him that he doesn’t want them to see. The video. That’s what started it all. Then there are all the things the Avengers have seen. The flashbacks, his angry outbursts, stimming, the bruises, and now night terrors. Then his stupid public freak out.

How can he be so out of control?

Something cold and wet nudges his hand. It’s gentle, but insistent. A heartbeat attached to it. Lucky.

Matt blinks. His glasses are gone again. Foggy must’ve taken them off while he was sleeping. He raises his hand slowly and smooths the top of the dog’s head. Lucky sits patiently next to him, nudging his hand every now and then for more strokes.

Clint’s footsteps move closer. Fabric moving as he crouches down and shuffles the rest of the way behind Lucky. “I uh, gave him some half hearted training after Loki messed up my head. Or, well, Katie-Kate and Nat did most of the training. Then Bucky moved in and took a real shine to Lucky. So we got a real expert in to train him up as a PTSD assistance animal. He’s not perfect. He was older than they usually start training, so we never managed to train all the bad habits out of him. But he does know some things. Like right now he’s noticing you getting stuck in your head a bit too deep and he’s distracting you.”

Movement. Voices. Tony is sitting on the floor by the coffee table as Foggy sets up the cards. Foggy is partway through explaining how they play memory. Matt can’t remember when that conversation started.

Lucky nudges his hand again. He strokes his head, rubbing his ears in a way that makes the dog’s fluffy tail sweep against the carpet.

“Lucky’s pretty unusual since he started helping me, then was glued to Bucky’s side for at least six months. Bucky still needs him sometimes when he goes outside, but he doesn’t really use him around the tower anymore. And Lucky’s really good at going with whoever he’s told to go with. So we thought maybe you’d like it if he stuck with you sometimes. Some of the things he’s trained to do for me and Bucky might not be right for you. We can make a note of that if it comes up. And if some of the things he does works, and others don’t, we can talk about training up a younger dog that fits you better.”

The idea of getting a dog - a living creature - just to help with this problem sounds terrible. Dogs live for years. The thought that this thing could go on for years makes a lump lodge in his throat.

Lucky nudges his hand more viciously. He returns to stroking.

“Hey Matt.” Bucky’s voice from by the coffee table. A soft tone. “You don’t have to decide anything now. All that might change is that Lucky might pal around with you sometimes. We can teach you a couple signs to make him back off if you get annoyed, OK?”

Matt nods.

Clint’s heart beats with nerves again. “You want me to tell you what he can do?”

Matt plays with the soft fur around Lucky’s neck. He nods.

***

Lucky can do lots. He nudges and demands stokes when Matt gets lost in his head or dissociates. That happens a few more times before Foggy’s finished explaining how to play memory, less when Matt’s engaged in the game. He can bring a bag with rescue medication in case Matt does decide to use sedatives, and even a bottle of water to down the pills with. He knows all the residents of the tower by name and can go to their apartments with Jarvis’s help with the elevator.

If told to get help, he’ll go to the nearest resident and bring them back. He has a phone strapped to his harness when he goes outside and can depress the over-sized button on it in an emergency. He can carry notes to any resident in the tower, and even to strangers that are pointed to. He can help people balance on stairs when they’re disorientated, and even take a disorientated person to the nearest seat. He can guide people to the nearest exit if he knows the place.

He can lie across someone’s lap on command to provide deep pressure. He can circle around a person getting anxious in a crowded area to keep others away, and stand between the person and people acting noisy. He can lean against or nudge a person getting anxious. And if asked ‘who’s there?’ when in a room, he can show by body language whether there’s anyone unexpected around.

All the commands have hand signals. Clint teaches Matt two of them for now. ‘Back away’ which is a palm flat towards Lucky in a stop sign. And to lie across his lap, which is just patting his lap.

They play memory. Lucky curls up between Matt and Clint, his back flush against his leg. Matt’s still not sure if he likes the doggy smell, and he’s grateful that Foggy gives him unscented hand-wipes to use before they play, but the warm is nice.

It’s a short game with so many people. First the cards are placed face up across the coffee table. Matt traces his fingers along each one, memorising where it is. Then they’re turned over. They take turns flipping over a card, naming what and where it is for Matt’s benefit, then have to choose another card. If the second card is the same rank as the first you get to keep both. If they don’t match you turn them both face down and it’s the next person’s go. Whoever ends up with the most cards at the end wins.

“You sure this isn’t a superpower thing?” Clint asks dubiously when he has no cards and Matt has six pairs.

Matt traces his fingers over the small computer next to him, then picks up the PECS book instead. He finds the square he wants on the activities page and shows it to Clint. ‘Work.’

On the other side of the coffee table fabric shifts as Pepper leans over to make her choice. She makes a pleased sound, then gathers up her new cards. She’s good at this. Only one pair behind Matt with her new cards.

Clint makes a considering noise. “So this memory thing is like me with my bow? All elbow grease and no chemical cheating like the rest of the team?”

“Excuse you,” Tony scoffs. A groan as he slaps his cards back down. He’s still on three pairs. “I am the very definition of elbow grease. Making amazing weapons is hard work, you know.”

“And Nat and Sam aren’t enhanced,” Pepper reminds them. Cards against cards as she shuffles through her pile. “I like this game.”

“Of course you do,” Tony grumbles. “You’re better at it than me. I’m a genius! How are you better at this than me?”

“Hey,” Bucky breaks in as Foggy announces he has two fours. “Just cause we’re enhanced doesn’t mean me and Stevie don’t work hard. Stevie went hand to hand more times before they shot him up with that chemical shit than afterwards. And that’s including those crazy ass aliens you guys knocked around. We trained our asses off boxing so he wouldn’t keep busting himself up every time he picked a fight, which was always. And me with a rifle? That’s all natural.”

Matt ends up winning, but it’s close. Pepper and Foggy are only a little behind him.

“That was the tame version,” Foggy says, setting out the cards again. “Matt’s about to wow you. This was our party trick all throughout college. We won so much beer money from saps who thought betting against him was a good idea. This and arm wrestling. We’re both pretty good at arm wrestling. Which no one expected from my - uh - cuddly physique and Matt’s skinny one. So much beer money.”

Matt hesitates, a little self conscious, then moves his fingers over the new arrangement of cards. He counts them in his mind by rows and columns. Breaking them up into sections makes this a lot easier.

“Ready buddy?” Foggy asks. His heart beats a little too fast. Excitement Matt thinks.

Matt nods.

A smile in Foggy’s voice. It’s nice to hear it, even though Matt’s sure he’s not imagining a note of tiredness in there as well. “Queen of hearts.”

Matt feels his way down the rows, then along to the right column. He turns the card over.

“OK pal.” Challenge in Bucky’s voice. “Two of spades.”

Matt finds the card, turns it over.

“Three of diamonds, ace of spades, four of clubs, and two of hearts,” Foggy rattles off.

Matt turns each of them over, one by one.

Everyone calls out some cards. After a few more Pepper asks if she can try it. Matt nods and lets Pepper pounce on the next cards with shrill excitement, only interfering when Pepper isn’t sure where one is.

By the time people start trickling in for supper, he and Pepper sit side by side on the couch. Matt has his computer on his lap. Pepper has ten of the playing cards in her hands. He coaches her through methods of memorising the cards, then shuffles them and tests her. She learns fast. By the time the last straggler - Natasha - walks off the elevator Pepper is on twenty cards and remembering the order of most of them.

Matt pauses, frowning. Something off about Natasha’s footsteps. Her movements are slower, almost sluggish.

“Pepper, Matt,” Bruce says in a mock annoyed tone. “Stop playing and come eat.”

Tony sniggers from the table.

Matt makes his way to the table, the satchel with PECS book and computer over one shoulder. A scrape of wood against wood as Bucky moves a chair to the right of the large table. “Over here pal.”

His hand finds the back of the chair, sits down. He’s on the far right of the table, Foggy on his left, Bucky on his right. Lucky’s heartbeat comes from underneath the table.

“You’ve got your soup.” Clinking of ceramic as Foggy taps the mug in front of Matt. Another clink. A bowl. “And a small bowl of what Bruce made. Broccoli rice stir fry. He took some out for you before he added spices, so it’s really mild. If you want a little kick you can mix in some of mine. And a glass of water to the right of it.” A final clink, this one glass.

It’s not just broccoli rice, it’s rice made of shredded broccoli. There are diced peppers in it, and bits of pork. He takes a couple tiny spoonfuls to document all the different tastes, then accepts an offered spoonful of Foggy’s spiced version. Garlic with a very thin coating of honeyed barbecue sauce. After some deliberation, he spreads it throughout his unspiced version and eats. The garlic and sauce compliment the rest of it well. It’s good and not overpowering. Even the sauce seems to be made from largely natural foods.

“Matt you’re going to need to stop for a bit,” Sam says from across the table. “I know you’re really hungry, but your stomach’s not used to eating. Give it five minutes, then you can have another few mouthfuls.”

Matt puts his spoon down and takes a sip of water instead. He doesn’t think he’s nauseous, but his stomach does feel oddly tight.

Natasha’s heartbeat comes from Sam’s right. Steady clinking of metal against ceramic as she eats. She doesn’t join in the conversations at the table. Clint talking about a woman with kids at a building he owns. He and Bucky make plans to go and make some repairs she could use. Tony scoffs and offers to hire someone to do it. Foggy agrees with Clint and Bucky that there’s something nice about doing it yourself, and offers to join them. It evolves into a discussion about hardware and repairs that most of the table join in on.

Natasha’s heart is a little slower than usual. Tired? Her smell is off. A thin layer of stale sweat that smells sickly. A hidden wet to her breathing. And it’s hard to be precise from across the table, but her temperature is definitely up.

Matt shifts in his seat, tugging the PECS book from his bag. The velcro makes a rip sound as he tears a sentence strip off. A long piece of plastic he can use to stick more than one word to. He places it on the table next to Foggy.

Foggy stops talking. His breath stutters a few times before he says something. “You want to say something Matty?”

Natasha’s picture is on his people page. He puts that on the sentence strip. The square for sick is on his hurt page. He finds it and sticks it on the strip after Natasha’s square.

“OK,” Foggy says finally. “Do you want me to try and fix it, or do you want someone else to?”

The conversation around the table sounds forced. Like they’re pretending not to pay attention to him. Matt tries to ignore the thoughts that come with that. He points a finger at Sam’s heartbeat. Sam is an expert at mother henning.

“Wilson.” Skin against plastic as Foggy holds the sentence strip up. “Your mission, whether or not you choose to accept it.”

Silence.

A smack of skin against skin. Sam drops his head into his hands? “Oh hell.” His chair shifting as he gets up.

Clint snorts. “And you thought you could hide it Nat. Matt’s like a walking sickness radar. Hey, if he has kids they’ll never be able to fake sick to get a day off school.” He trails off as if lost in this new thought.

“I’m fine,” Natasha says.

Matt frowns. She doesn’t sound fine. Her voice is too raspy. A sore throat? Something else too. Something that makes her swallow too often.

Sam’s footsteps walk back to the table. Plastic slamming against wood. The scent of antiseptic. The first aid kit being placed on the table. “Please don’t bite my fingers off for this. I need both hands.”

Tony makes a thoughtful noise. “I could probably make you a prosthetic.”

Plastic clicking against plastic as the first aid kit is opened. Sam’s voice, firm. “OK. Stay still while I check your temperature. Seriously. No biting.”

“Guys.” Natasha laughs. Her heart is speeds up. “I’m not sick.” Then she gags and there’s the smell of vomit.

“Yeah,” Tony says, sounding disgusted. “That argument works better when you don’t throw up all over your lap.”

The stench of vomit hits him like a sledgehammer. His stomach rolls. He pushes himself quickly to his feet, darting in the direction of the bathroom. Two steps in and a fuzziness rushes over him. Like someone had wrapped his ears in cotton wool. The world lurches around him, falling into nonsense.

***

He blinks.

A cold arm around his waist. A warm chest against his back. Bucky’s heartbeat thrums through him. Another hand on his head with a different heartbeat. Foggy.

Everything’s sort of muffled. From the hard wood beneath him, he can tell he’s sitting on the ground. All his senses throb back to him in increasing degrees.

“Hey Matty.” Foggy sighs. “You fainted, and no I’m not calling it anything more manly than that. I’m half tempted to say you swooned. That’s what you get when you stand up too fast after refusing to eat for five days. You’re lucky Bucky has the same cat-like reflexes you do, or you’d have even more bruises right now.” Matt’s hand is placed against plastic. “I grabbed you a bucket just in case, but please don’t-”

He gags into the bucket. A rush of what feels like boiling water and bile burns his throat before splattering in the bucket.

“Throw up…” Foggy rests a palm on the back of his neck.

Bucky’s warm hand rubs at his back. The motion is practised and soothing, like he’s had a lot of experience helping people who are sick.

Gradually it stops, but not without a lot of dry heaving so painful it puts tears in his eyes. His body seems angry it doesn’t have more to throw up. When it’s over he barely has enough energy to clean his face with the wipe Foggy places in his hand.

“Sympathy vomiter?” Steve asks, his voice coming from low to the ground a few feet away.

“Yeah. The smell, you know? But not always. Sometimes you manage, don’t you Matty. I think everything’s just hitting a little hard lately.” Foggy’s hand brushes his hair back from his forehead. The smell of sweat coming from himself. “At least that’s what I hope this is. You’re not getting sick, are you Matt?”

Matt shakes his head, and that’s a bad idea. Everything sways dangerously for a moment.

Bucky’s arm tightens around his middle. “Let’s go over to the couch for a bit. Get you comfy while we wait this out.”

“Then you should eat something Matt,” Steve says, voice soft. “Even if it’s soup.”

Matt shakes his head. Food sounds terrible right now.

“Sam and Clint took Nat away to get cleaned up.” A small smile in Steve’s voice. “She was looking pretty miserable. I bet she’ll feel even worse if she knows she’s the reason you threw up some of the first food you’ve had in five days, and you’re not even trying to replace it. You want her feeling that bad?”

Steve is evil. He may be Captain America, but he’s also an evil mastermind who has the power to guilt the world into letting him take over it. Matt glares in his general direction, then shakes his head slowly. He doesn’t want her feeling bad.

The smile in Steve’s voice grows. “You’ll eat some soup?”

Matt sighs, then nods.

***

Hours, two cups of soup, and one chocolate banana smoothie Tony handed him with a brisk “here kid try this” later and Matt feels a little more stable. His knees are still kind of watery. The walk back up to his apartment really takes it out of him.

Foggy pokes him in the (uncracked) ribs from where they sit side by side on Matt’s bed. “I can’t believe I’m the fit one of us for once.”

Matt shakes his head, but the way he’s still trying to catch his breath takes away from the strength of his denial.

“OK,” Foggy says. “It’s connecting. Ready with your computer?”

Matt nods, managing to get his breath under control just in time. He directs his focus towards the sound of the laptop in Foggy’s lap. Lucky’s heartbeat is a steady sound from the floor by the side of the bed. Foggy had thought to put a spare sheet by Matt’s side just in case Lucky needed to clamber up and nudge him.

“I can never get this damn thing to-” The female voice cuts off. “Oh Matt! Sweetheart. There you are.”

Matt shifts uncomfortably on the bed. There’s a camera on him. His heart beats a little too fast at that. But it’s only the camera from Foggy’s laptop, and the only person watching is Anna, Foggy’s mother.

Sarcasm in Foggy’s voice. “Hey Mom. It’s swell to see you too. I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

A pause. It’s harder to sense things over a video. Not all the sound comes through, and all his other senses are useless for it. “Matt? You look flushed. Are you sick?”

Matt shakes his head. His fingers find the small computer Tony gave him. ‘Had physio.’ Which is true. It had been an improvised session. Bruce had taken it on himself to contact Devan and find out what exercises Matt needed to do. And Clint who seemed to have broken every bone in his body at one point helped, sounding as knowledgeable on all the dos and don’ts of physio as Devan. They’d coached Matt through a few exercises, Foggy doing any of the touching needed to guide him into the right positions.

Wet in Anna’s voice. “It’s so nice to talk to you sweetheart. We were worried. Then Franklin got sick. If it hadn’t been for that nice guy Sam Wilson I would’ve gone out of my mind.”

“Mom chill.” A smile in Foggy’s voice, but tense muscles. Fake. “Let’s stick to safe topics, OK? How about what delicious dishes we get to look forward to when you visit?”

“Of course.” Strain in Anna’s voice. “What about cinnamon roll? That’s still one of your favourites, isn’t it Matt?”

Matt asks for cinnamon roll and pecan pie. He feels a little bad asking for both, but he also knows from the pleading tone in her voice that she wants something to do. She also decides to make them macaroni and cheese, and after hearing how many possible people there will be in the house decide on Foggy ordering the ingredients and Anna making a huge batch when she comes over.

She asks more about Sam. Foggy tells her about how nice a guy he is “unless you’re sick,” he adds darkly. “Then he’s terrifying.” Matt tells her about his cookies. That somehow leads to Bucky and the pancake stuck to the ceiling incident. Anna laughs at that, leaving Matt feeling proud at chasing away the wet in her voice.

She tells them about Candace. She’s enjoying her MA in Journalism, and already has a part time job at an on-line newspaper. She’s dumped her latest boyfriend, but doesn’t seem upset about it. The hardware store Anna and Ned own is going well. Business has taken an upturn recently. Old Mrs Hanson slipped outside their store and gave them all a scare, but she seems to have not broken her hip like they’d thought, and is already back home and proudly showing off her bruised backside like it’s some kind of war wound.

Matt’s glad she’s OK. Mostly because she’s a nice person if a little patronising at times. Partly because whenever she sees Anna, she always asks after her kids, and Matt has the guilty pleasure of eavesdropping on statements such as “Our older two started their own law firm.” Or “and our middle child Matt graduated summa cum laude, can you believe it? We’re so proud.” Or even “the kids are fighting again. You think they’re going to grow up, but they never do. Apparently Candace did something mean to Franklin and now Matt’s sulking until she apologises.”

They decide that Anna will come to visit on Thursday, which gives them all of Wednesday to recover from court. If it goes well Candace will come next, since she’s already badgering both Anna and Foggy about coming to see Matt.

Something squeezes around his heart. Court tomorrow. People, and judgements. People are the worst part. They carry so much noise and movement and smells. They’re so unpredictable.

Shuffling of cloth. The mattress jerks and something cold touches his hand. Lucky clambering onto the bed to nudge Matt.

Foggy’s heart beats too fast. “It’s getting late Mom. We’re going to have to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow and tell you how the last day went.”

“Wait Franklin.” A pause. “Are you making sure he’s eating enough? He looks really thin.”

Lucky nudges his hand again. Matt finds his head and strokes it.

Wet in Foggy’s voice. The faint smell of salt. Tears. “Mom. I’m trying the best I can here.”

A silence that seems filled with tension. “Are you sure you don’t want me to-”

“No.” Slightly muffled. A hand over Foggy’s face? “No. We’ve got it. I’ve got it. You can come on Thursday. Just remember what we talked about.”

“OK honey. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Bye Matt.”

Matt remembers a second too late to raise his hand and wave goodbye.

***

He’s yanked backwards and thrown into small stones that cut into his skin.

Wind howls in his ears. It makes it difficult to make out anything. The sensation of his silk pyjama bottoms against his legs. An over-sized hoodie he’s taken to pulling over his sling at night. Nothing but the rough scrape of dressings over the stitches on his feet. Dressed for bed. But the wind pulls at his clothes, plays with his hair, chills him to the bone. He’s outside.

How is he outside?

“Jesus kid.” A voice he knows. Somewhere above him. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack, because I’ve got to tell you, my heart can not have a heart attack right now. Or ever. No heart attacks.”

Shaking, Matt pushes himself to his feet, trying to make sense of everything. His heart pounds through his head in a panic that’s becoming too familiar. The wind whips around him stronger than before. The sharp stones bite upwards into his feet.

Going to sleep. That’s the last thing he remembers. He’d thought about court, and Lucky had climbed fully onto the mattress and had ended up licking his face to snap him out of it, which was totally gross but had worked. Then he’d browsed through the PECS book to calm down, tracing the squares for the places in the tower and wondering which ones Anna would like to see when she comes.

There’s a small laminated square in his hand. He can’t tell which card it is.

Another voice. Warm, but still sharp. Female. “Matt. It’s Pepper. It’s me and Tony. Are you with us?”

Pepper. He clings to the name. Forces himself to focus until he finds it. Pepper. Blueberries and paper. She likes memory games. Tony. A hum from the centre of his chest. Scar tissue in his heartbeat. Smells like blueberries and engine grease. Made him the headphones and the computer. Wants to make him a hammock. Is making him and Clint a parkour jungle gym.

“Matt, it’s Pepper and Tony here.” Pepper has to speak loudly to be heard over the wind. “It’s about midnight on the night of Monday the 4th of April. You’re at Avengers tower. On the roof. We need to get you inside. Do you understand?”

Matt shakes his head. The wind cuts through him. He doesn’t understand any of this. He takes a breath and it tastes like cold and fear. How many times is he going to find himself confused and afraid?

“Matt.” Relief in Pepper’s voice. “It’s really cold up here. And we’ve all only got pyjamas on. Can I guide you inside?”

Why is he on the roof?

“Matt please.” Pepper’s voice trembles. “I’m really cold. Can we go inside?”

Matt nods shakily.

“I’m walking to your left side Matt.” The trembling is gone from Pepper’s voice. Was she faking it? “I’m going to touch your wrist to show you where my arm is. Grab my elbow and we can go inside.”

A tap on his wrist. Matt flinches even though he knows it’s coming. He forces himself to take a lungful of cold wind, then traces his fingers down her arm to her elbow.

His bandaged feet scuff against the stones as they walk to a place a long way behind where Matt was standing. The wind lessens, like they’re moving further from the edge of the roof. What happened? He was looking through the PECS book. Thinking about something. A nice memory.

Shifting his grip on Pepper’s elbow, he skims a finger over the card tucked into the palm of his hand. ‘Roof.’ He’d been thinking about his apartment. About walking up to the roof on a warm day. Foggy grumbling behind him about the lack of safety rails. The sun hot on his skin. Holding a cold tub of ice-cream in his hands while he listened to Foggy unfolding the lawn chairs. A casual conversation about nothing important as they enjoyed the warmth, trading the ice-cream back and forth. No sirens or screams to distract him for once.

Then he must have slept. Then nothing. No matter how much he looks he can’t find anything.

The whoosh of elevator doors, sounding heavier up here than in the communal lounge. Voices. Racing heartbeats.

“We’re taking Matt back to his floor,” Pepper says in a voice that manages to be both warmth and firm. “We aren’t talking about this up here.”

The voices stop. Foggy’s there. He recognises Foggy. Bucky too. Steve? Someone else too.

“I’ll wait to catch the next one.” Something dark in Tony’s voice. “This conversation is going to need a lot of alcohol. I’ll bring some down.”

Matt’s stomach twists and coils. Tony says that like he knows what happened. Like what happened was really bad. But what did happen? Why don’t they tell him?

“Matt? Shall we share the elevator with Foggy, Bucky, Steve, and Sam? Or do you think that’ll be too much of a squeeze?” Pepper guides him close enough to the elevator doors that he can feel the warmth inside.

Matt removes his hand from Pepper’s elbow to find the edge of the door. Steps through and lodges himself in the empty corner beside them. He leans his head back against the metal, counting his breaths. Tries to ignore the eyes that must be staring at him. His hand trembles around the card.

What happened?

The doors slide closed. The elevator lurches downward.

“Jarvis said he went to the roof.” Foggy’s breathing comes too fast too. His heart races. Muscles tense. No stench of anger yet, but Matt’s sure that will come.

Matt did something wrong. What did he do wrong?

“That’s where we found him.” Pepper says, sounding like she’s trying very hard to keep her voice even.

The elevator doors whoosh open. Matt steps out. That fuzzy feeling starts filling his head again. He clenches his hand around the card. He can’t pass out right now. He needs to find out what happened.

“Let’s talk about this in my apartment.” Sam’s voice sounds calm. His heart sounds almost calm. That’s good. That’s better than everyone else. “That way you don’t have to have all those people in your apartment. Sound like a good idea Matt?”

Matt nods. A good idea. For some reason the idea of Karen, Claire, Bucky, Steve, or even Sam in Foggy’s and his apartment doesn’t make him anxious, but the idea of anyone else does. Which is weird, and unfair to them. But it feels like he’s seen them in his apartment, and he knows what they do in there. The others he’s not sure about. What if they rearrange things, or invite strangers inside?

A warm weight against his leg. Lucky.

Footsteps march into Sam’s apartment. His heart speeds up. Anxiety rears it’s head again. Not only because he’s confused and his chest is really starting to hurt from all the aerobics his heart is doing, and he’s sure people are frustrated or worried and he doesn’t know what’s happening. It’s stupider than that. Sam’s apartment is a new place. It’s a great big unknown. He doesn’t know where anything is, or what he’s supposed to do.

“Matt?” Bucky’s voice. Heart too fast. Nervous. “Want my arm?”

Matt reaches out, finds Bucky’s elbow, clings.

He’s guided to a couch. The fabric is thin and worn. The cushions are huge and squishy. The armrest is to his right. Bucky sits on his left. Close enough that he could lean into him if he wanted. Steve’s heartbeat sits on Bucky’s other side. It’s too fast, even as he gets up, fabric shifting as he mutters something about tea.

Sam takes over his internal narration. His calm voice talks about Pepper sitting in his Grandma’s old knitting rocking chair near the other end of the sofa, and how elegant she looks in her silk dressing gown. “Much more put together than the rest of us,” he adds. He talks about Steve’s boring plain blue pyjamas, and Bucky’s much less boring Captain America pyjama bottoms. How sleep mussed Bucky’s hair is. How Foggy’s wearing Hulk pyjama bottoms and an Iron Man pyjama top, and how surprised he is that Tony hasn’t made a shipping related comment about it. (Though Matt’s not sure how ships come into this). How Sam’s wearing a fashionable onsie with birds on it.

He talks about the layout of his apartment. An armchair beside the rocking chair. A small table between them. A television somewhere in front of Matt. The kitchen area behind the sofa. Bedroom and bathroom behind that. A spare bedroom and office in front of Matt and a little to the left. The front door is about eight paces to his right. If he really needs to leave he can.

When Tony appears with the smell of whisky, Sam talks about his band t-shirt and sweatpants, and how many bottles of alcohol he’s carrying. “Feel any better Matt?” That strong calm in Sam’s voice, like he’s in control of the situation. “What number are we on?”

Matt offers three fingers.

Steve’s footsteps walk back in the apartment as Tony starts handing out glasses. The slosh of liquid.

An object held in front of Matt. Steve’s voice, soft. “I have your communication aids.”

Matt’s fumbling hand finds the satchel, pulls it to his lap.

“Hey Murdock, you can actually drink alcohol now, can’t you?” Tony stays a fair distance away from him. “So what’s your poison? I grabbed red wine, whisky, scotch, tequila.”

“Scotch.” Foggy’s voice is too quiet and laced with something Matt can’t name, but knows he doesn’t like. “He likes scotch.”

“Scotch Murdock?”

Matt nods. Swallows heavily.

“Coming right - wait - do we need the safe glasses right now? Are you going to do your bull in a china shop routine?”

Matt ducks his head. The laminated square crushes together in his fist.

“I’ve got some plastic cups.” Sam’s footsteps make their way to the kitchen area.

***

The scotch burns his throat. It’s a good distraction.

“Matt.” Sam’s voice comes from lower than anyone else. Sitting on the floor a little way in front of Matt. “No one is here to judge you. Whatever you say isn’t going to change the way we view you. We just need to ask some questions to help us know how to keep you safe. That OK?”

Matt nods. Lucky leans heavy against his legs.

“Matt. When you were on that roof, were you thinking about jumping?”

That’s what they think this is about? Cold rushes down his spine. He shakes his head viciously.

“He climbed onto the edge.” A hollowness to Tony’s words. Like he can’t quite believe them. “We had to grab him back. It was close.” A sharp movement. A slosh of liquid. Tony downing the rest of his glass.

Matt blinks. He wouldn’t do that. He went to sleep. That’s all. He thought about Foggy, and the roof of his apartment, and ice cream, and he fell asleep. He chased away all the bad feelings about court and went to sleep. And that’s good. So how could -

Cold and wet nudges his hand. Lucky. He downs the rest of the scotch in one swallow that makes his throat scream. Winces.

“Matt?” Sam’s voice. Calm. “Can you tell us why you went to the roof then?”

He didn’t. He didn’t go.

“How did he even get to the roof in the first place? That’s what I want to know.” Bitterness in Foggy’s voice. The smell of whisky in his hand from where he sits in the armchair. Usually he’d sit near Matt. Usually he’d offer to guide Matt, not Bucky. How mad is he? “Because to get there, you would’ve had to take him, right Jarvis?”

“Mr Murdock is permitted access to any part of the tower he wishes.” Somehow despite being and AI Jarvis manages to sound offended. “His only restrictions are that I inform someone where he is going so they may supervise. Given the possible dangers of his chosen location I took the extra precaution of notifying everyone on his floor, as well as Miss Potts and Sir as they could access the location at the greatest speed.”

“And it almost wasn’t fast enough.” Slosh of liquid as Foggy drinks.

“He wouldn’t have fallen - much,” Tony says defensively. “I would have jumped after him if it had come to that. Called my suit. I have fail-safes like that in place.”

“You think that makes it OK?” Slam of glass against wood as Foggy places his glass on the side table Sam mentioned. Matt flinches at the noise. “That this one time you happen to be there to stop him. You have guns here, knives. I don’t want to know what kind of things you have in the labs. What if the next time he wanders down to the communal lounge he gets a knife before anyone can get there? What if he goes to the gym and gets a gun from the shooting range?”

Tony scoffs, though his heart hammers fast. “Those guns are locked up.”

“You can’t lock up everything!” Foggy’s voice blooms from frustration into something that makes Matt cringe. Anger. That smell is there. “I can’t lose him. So tell Jarvis that from now on he’s not allowed anywhere unless I’m with him.”

“Foggy.” Steve’s voice. “Think about this. After what he’s been through, do you really want to start restricting his freedom even more?”

“I’ll get Jarvis to wait on company before he takes Murdock to the roof or labs,” Tony says. Firmness in his voice. “But there should be some places he gets to go by himself. I’ll work on safety proofing the communal floor.”

Firmness in Pepper’s voice too. “And you can’t take all that on by yourself Foggy. It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to him. There are others Matt has already responded well to. We can all spend time with him. We want to spend time with him.”

Fabric shifting as Foggy stands up. Wet in his voice. “You all act like you know what’s best for him, but you don’t. How can you - I’ve been there for him. I was there when he was eighteen and I had to teach him how to fist bump, or how friendship works. I was the one who taught him that when his eyes hurt and his breathing got wet that meant he was sad, and that it wasn’t something he had to be ashamed of. I fucking taught him how to recognise all his emotions, because someone had stiff upper lipped him for so long that he knew fuck all about what he was feeling. I’ve coached him through panic attacks. I’ve helped him through the days when he didn’t want to get out of bed, years before all of this. I taught him he can have nice things back when he’d buy the cheapest cotton shirts and stain them with blood scratching because they were so uncomfortable. I had to teach him that the aid they gave him in the first year of undergrad didn’t have the right to insult or hurt him just because he needed her help to take some notes!”

Matt strokes Lucky. His arm shakes.

“Foggy, we know you’re Matt’s friend.” How can Sam still be so calm? “You’ll always be Matt’s friend. But you need help too man. We can help.”

“Yeah?!” Foggy shouts. He stinks of anger. Body too warm. Muscles too tense. Sickly sweat. “Then where the hell were you when Hell’s Kitchen needed help? Where were you when Matt was the only one standing up against ninjas and fuck knows what else? Where were you when Fisk was setting bombs, killing our friends, or making deals with people who kidnap little boys in front of their fathers and plan to sell them to paedophile sex rings. Where the fucking hell were you when Matty got hurt?”

“We weren’t there then,” Bucky says quietly. “But we can be here now.”

“Fucking good that does.” Foggy’s footsteps march past them, past Matt, and to Sam’s front door. “You were the ones that thought it was a good idea to let a guy gang raped less than three weeks ago stroll up to the roof. I almost lost my best friend because of you!”

“Foggy you need to calm down.” Movement. Sam makes some kind of gesture. Pointing? “Go chill in my spare room. Breathe. You can’t be out here like this.”

“Fuck you.” Movement of hair. Foggy shakes his head. “I’m not leaving him with you. Come on Matt. We’re going back to the apartment.”

Matt shakes. Lucky’s nudging him so insistently that his front paws are on the couch, in the tiny space between Matt and armrest. Foggy is mad. He should go, but Foggy is mad. He doesn’t know what he did wrong.

“Matt! Get the fuck over here!”

Matt jerks to his feet quickly. But Lucky’s pinning one of his legs, and he can’t get his balance. The satchel shifts in his lap. He grabs it to stop it falling. The world kind of quivers and he thumps back down onto the cushion. Foggy’s mad, and he can’t even get this right. His breathing comes too fast. His chest hurts. He can’t feel his legs, and his hand is all tingly and uncoordinated.

“Matty. It’s OK.” Foggy’s word, but whispered in Bucky’s voice. Bucky’s heartbeat thumps against his side. “You can go with him when he calms down. Not before.”

Matt takes a shaky breath.

“We’ve got him Foggy,” Sam says. “You’re no use to him like this.”

“He’s my-”

“You’re scaring him Foggy.” Steve’s voice. Soft.

A long pause of breathing and heart beating too fast. Lucky clambers over his lap to nudge at his hand.

Foggy exhales a breath. His footsteps walk to one of the rooms to the left of the couch. A door opens. Closes.

“Well that was dramatic.” Clinking of glass against glass as Tony pours something that smells of whisky.


	21. Chapter 21

Matt curls up as tight as he can and Bucky reminds him how to breathe.

It’s easier pressed up against Bucky’s side so close he can feel every inhale and exhale of the other man’s lungs and try to match it with his own. He’s not sure how he managed to get in this position, except that Lucky isn’t helping by curling up in the minuscule space between armrest and Matt.

“What number?” Bucky’s voice rumbles into his side. The contact is less warm than before. There’d been shuffling of fabric as Steve removed his pyjama top and given it to Bucky. Somehow Bucky had managed to shrug it on with Matt pressed into his side. Covering up his naked torso is a nice gesture, but not necessary. If Matt had ditched the hoodie it would be. He doesn’t want to chance that much skin against skin, even when he knows the heartbeat. But with the hoodie between them and no sight, there’s not much point.

Matt leans his forehead against his knees and shrugs his shoulder.

Fabric against wood as Sam shifts from his place on the ground. “Matt? Are you ready to tell us why you were on the roof?”

Are they actually going to listen this time?

Bucky nudges his shoulder. “Pal?”

Matt huffs, pulling at the satchel from where it’s lodged behind Lucky. He tries to ignore Foggy’s upset breathing from the other room. The sentence strip tears free. And his hand can’t help flicking to the people section, tugging Foggy’s square loose, sticking it in place, then finding the emotion page and making a sentence he didn’t intend to ask. He shows it to Bucky.

‘Foggy’ ‘Angry’

The sound of Bucky swallowing. “Foggy ain’t mad. Not at you. He’s angry at this whole situation. And he’s really scared and confused right now, but he’s not angry at you Matt.”

No change in Bucky’s heartbeat. Not a lie. Or maybe Bucky just doesn’t think it’s a lie. He can’t answer for Foggy.

“Think you can try to answer Sam’s question now?”

Matt tries to shake the wet from his breathing, sticks the sentence strip back in the book with the squares still on it in case he needs it again. Rips off a blank strip. The answer is on his everyday page. ‘Sleep.’ He sticks it on the strip, shows it to Bucky.

Movement of hair as Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t understand pal. You were asleep. Then what happened?”

The square for ‘roof’ is crumbled. He sticks it on the strip after ‘Sleep.’

“You were asleep, then you were on the roof. What happened in between?”

Matt feels the sentence strip with his fingers, moves the roof square until it’s flush against the sleep square. Moves one finger to the other rapidly.

“Asleep then on the roof,” Bucky repeats sounding like he’s trying to figure out a difficult puzzle. The confusion in his voice clears. “Oh. Asleep then on the roof. Nothing in between. I get you. Hey Jarvis, do you have security footage for when Matt went up to the roof in the elevator?”

“I’m able to override my privacy settings and access this under medical emergency situation level two with Sir’s permission.” Jarvis’s voice comes from three points in the room, roughly the same places he speaks from in Matt and Foggy’s apartment.

“Go for it J.” Clicking of skin against plastic as Tony fiddles with something electronic. “Stream it to Wilson’s television.”

“I think I see what you’re getting at,” Steve says after a minute of silence and a chance in the hum of the television. “You think he’s sleep walking.”

“Or some kind of extreme dissociation,” Sam adds sounding thoughtful. “Either one fits. His dissociations have gotten pretty extreme before, and with his other sleep issues, sleep walking popping up isn’t a stretch.”

“Huh.” Tony stops clicking at his electronic thing. “Jarvis must have assumed that since Murdock’s not exactly toastmaster material right now, carrying the PECS card was his way of communicating where he wanted to go.”

“Walking to the edge of a rooftop fits with what we knew about him…before.” Steve’s breathing seems more relaxed. A lot of their breathing seems more relaxed.

“Mystery solved.” A smile in Pepper’s voice. “Jarvis, would you be so kind as to inform Foggy of our findings?”

“Of course Miss Potts.” A tense few minutes of silence. Lucky licks Matt’s hand. Matt hears voices from the spare bedroom. Foggy sounds upset. That’s all he’s able to piece together with his lack of focus. When Jarvis speaks again he sounds more guarded. “I’ve suggested Foggy remain where he is for the time being.”

A pained sound to Tony’s voice. “That bad?”

“I feel Foggy’s present state has been building for quite some time,” Jarvis says, sounding apologetic. “This latest incident was the straw as they might say, though a hefty one.”

“I’ll bring him some tea.” Shuffling as Sam gets up from the floor. “Looks like he might be staying here tonight. And even if he does calm down enough to go back, I don’t want him stressing about Matt right now. No offence Matt. One of you will have to buffer.”

“I got it,” Bucky’s voice rumbles through him.

Fabric shifting as Tony gets up. “You’re doing the friend thing all wrong Wilson. You should be bringing him whisky, not tea.”

“I’m not giving him a hangover when he has court in the morning. He is getting some of Bruce’s extra strength sleepy time tea.”

“The big guns.” Soft sound of bare feet as Pepper moves to the door. “I’m glad you’re OK Matt. Try to get some sleep.”

Matt nods.

“Jarvis will amp up your restrictions for a bit.” An apologetic tone to Tony’s voice. “Sucks I know. But find a field trip partner and you can still go anywhere. I’ll have the communal lounge sleep walk proof in a couple days so you can zombie walk your way down there to your heart’s content. We’ll work out the other rooms later.”

The door opens. It closes.

Foggy’s upset breathing comes from the spare bedroom. A lot of wet to it. Crying or trying not to cry.

Matt takes the ‘Foggy’ ‘Angry’ strip from the PECS book, shows it to Bucky again.

“He’s not angry, remember Matt? He’s scared, and upset, and tired. Worrying about you is pretty draining for him. That’s not your fault, but we’re going to try and give him some rest by me staying with you tonight instead. That OK pal?” Worry in Bucky’s voice. Worry in his heart.

Matt digs in the satchel and pulls out the computer. He needs to find the words for this. He doesn’t think he has them in the PECS book. It takes a long time, but eventually he finds what he wants to say, checks it with the screen reader, then hands it to Bucky.

‘I don’t know what I did wrong.’

Bucky’s heart beats faster. Wet in his voice. “Pal, you didn’t do anything wrong. Foggy’s just tired and upset, like you get sometimes. That doesn’t mean you did anything wrong.”

It has to mean he did something wrong because - he shows Bucky the sentence strip again. ‘Foggy’ ‘Angry.’ That’s why it has to be that he did something wrong. Foggy is angry, so something he did must have caused it. He needs to learn what he did so he doesn’t do it again. Bucky has to tell him.

“He’s not angry.”

Matt drops the sentence strip onto the small computer, nudges that Bucky’s way so he can see the screen across the top. Lucky nudges him. A line of burning hot cuts down his face, drips off his chin. He taps the screen that says ‘I don’t know what I did wrong.’

“Matty. Pal. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Matt feels Bucky’s heart say truth. He doesn’t believe it.

***

Steve breaks it down for him.

His voice is calm. It has an earnest quality that makes all his words sound like truth even without his heart to back them up. His heart beats truth, but it’s not always calm. Sometimes it speeds up and his voice gets a little wet when Matt admits that he still doesn’t understand.

They get there.

Steve explains that Foggy is upset because he’s been sick and stressed for a while, but the main reason is when Matt sleep walked to the roof it scared him. The sleep walking is the cause. Then he explains that it can only be Matt’s fault if he knowingly took an action that made that happen. He asks what decision Matt made.

‘Sleep walked’ Matt types.

But that’s wrong. Steve explains why that’s wrong. Because Matt didn’t make the choice to sleep walk. You can only make a wrong choice if it’s a choice. And that’s kind of confusing and makes Matt’s head hurt, but he tries to understand. He tries really hard to understand, and Steve is patient and explains it several times using stories about the Avengers as examples.

They work out that Matt’s last choice was to go to sleep. And Steve insists that still wasn’t a wrong choice. He points out that Matt didn’t know what was going to happen, and for a choice to be wrong you have to make it knowing what’s going to happen. Then when Matt still doesn’t quite understand they follow through what would happen if he made the choice to never sleep so he didn’t sleep walk. He’d get cranky and stressed, and would be more likely to sleep walk or dissociate.

So the sleep walking wasn’t Matt’s fault. Matt didn’t do anything wrong. He lies there propped against the pillows in his bed and tries to wrap his brain around it.

Foggy is upset, but Matt didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a strange concept. Steve made it sound so believable, and Matt kind of understands, but it still doesn’t make sense.

His mind spins away from it, back to the other thing taking up his thoughts. Court is tomorrow. Or today, because it’s early morning now. Matt would lean over to tap his clock and find out exactly what time, but Lucky is curled up by his right side and he doesn’t want to wake him.

Court is tomorrow and there’s going to be people. Those people are going to talk about him. Look at him. Make decisions about him. Foggy is usually his buffer, but Foggy is upset. Bucky might be his buffer, but what if he’s tired of Matt? What if he’s realised that Matt is too much hard work and doesn’t want to spend time with him anymore? What if Matt is being too clingy and demanding?

He swallows heavily. The shock of waking up on that rooftop left him feeling shaky, then everyone thought he’d done it on purpose, including Foggy, and now court. People and noises and smells. Part of him wishes he could remember how he managed to divorce himself from the world so completely so he can do it again.

Instead tension floods through him, and it’s all he can do to keep the frustrated scream locked away as he moves his sleeve and digs his teeth into his arm. And it’s strange. His mind keeps replaying the too fast sounds of everyone’s heartbeats when they thought he’d tried to kill himself. It keeps replaying their voices and finding notes of disappointment he’s not sure he’s imagining. It keeps replaying the smells and sounds of court. How the facts against him paint him as some kind of crazed monster detached from everything he’d tried to do.

He bites again, again, again. The scream stays lodged in his throat. The tension in his muscles doesn’t ease one bit. It doesn’t work. His breathing comes too fast. It doesn’t work. He needs it to work. He needs this clawing feeling in his chest to go away.

There’s a way that’s worked before. The thought sets his teeth on edge.

There’s a reason he stopped doing that. But it was a while ago. And it did work the times when the clawing became panic and biting and hitting didn’t even take the edge off. He only needs to do it this once. He hasn’t done it in years. His tolerance should be low despite all the wounds he’s accumulated since then. It shouldn’t take much.

And he needs the pressure coiling through his body to go away. He can’t breathe like this.

Scrambling from his bed he stumbles out of the bedroom. Deep breath. Don’t let his arm tremble too much. Jarvis has cameras out here. He has to hold it together long enough to get what he needs.

Lucky lets out a high pitched yawn behind him.

Matt comes up with a plan. He moves to the fridge in the kitchen area, finds a yogurt that with a label that tells him it’s one of those greek style ones he likes. Close the fridge. Stay calm. Calculate the drawers position from the fridge. Open it without looking for the label. Fumble inside and discreetly slip one of the smaller ones up his sleeve. Close the drawer. Make a show of feeling the labels before he comes across the one that says cutlery. Grab a spoon like that was what he was looking for in the first place.

Tuck the objects to his chest so the thing he really came for doesn’t fall out his sleeve. Count his paces until he reaches the bedroom.

He trembles. His body is so tense. He needs it to stop. That’s not bad, right? He just needs it to stop.

Lucky licks at his face. Matt pushes him away. Not even gross dogginess will help right now. Maybe later. He’ll just bring himself down enough so he can breathe, then he’ll stroke Lucky to bring it down the rest of the way. If biting doesn’t work then stroking Lucky isn’t going to do anything right now.

Matt gets his hoodie unzipped before Lucky bothers him again. He barely has enough presence of mind to use the back off signal Clint taught him. Lucky bothers him again before Matt remembers to scramble for the light switch, turn it on before giving him the signal. This time Lucky slides off the bed.

Good. That’s good. Matt’s a little out of control right now. He just needs to get back in control, then everything will be fine.

The sling doesn’t cover his upper arm. It’s the best place to start. All he needs to do is stay away from the bracial artery and he’ll be fine. He can feel the blood rushing under his skin. He knows how to do this.

Raising the knife to his arm, he cuts down. The knife is OK. Not perfect. He hadn’t had time to check their sharpness, so he’d grabbed a small serrated blade. No matter how blunt a serrated knife is, you can still get it to cut. There’s not as much control as with a smooth sharp blade, but smooth blades do nothing if they’re blunt.

The pain is sharp. Completely different from the blunt pain of biting that only takes on sharp edges if you get the angle right. He has to swipe it a little to get it to cut. There’s no dramatic trickling of warmth like most people think. He’s careful, even when his whole body is coiled tight and screaming at him. One swipe, then wait. Let the pain drown out everything. Wait to see how tight his muscles are after things settle.

He traces a finger along the cut. Deeper than he thought. Not bad though. Nowhere near needing stitches. He’s still tense, but already his chest feels a little less tight. He feels less like he’s dying.

Another swipe in the same place. This time some warmth trickles from the wound. The pain is brighter this time. It drowns out every thought in his head. It’s not pleasant. It’s still pain. But the physical pain hurts less than the thoughts.

It echoes through his body a long time afterwards. That’s good. The thoughts lose some of their power. His muscles lose some of their tension. It’s still too much though. It’s always going to be too much, isn’t it? The thoughts are always going to be there. Another couple of cuts and he’ll be done this time. But only this time. The tension’s going to grow again like it always does. Everything’s going to be too much, and he’ll be back here cutting himself up like some kind of nut-case, or throwing things, or hitting his friends.

He can feel the bracial artery pulse. There’s a thought that makes his fingers stop tracing the wound, wander to the other side of his right arm. His fingers find where the artery is close to the surface. It might still take a good few swipes to reach it. The knife presses over it, hard enough to cut into the skin.

This is never going to stop.

His breath shudders. He’s going to keep losing it. He’s never going back to the way he was. And even if he did, people are never going to let him forget what happened. He’ll always be the guy who got - he’ll always be the guy who got -

The door opens. Uneven footsteps. The shift of the mattress underneath him. A hand takes the knife from his skin. For some reason Matt’s fingers clench around the handle. A cold hand joins the warm one and wrenches it out of his grip.

Clatter of metal against wood as it’s thrown onto his bedside table.

A cold arm around his back. A warm one grips his neck. They tug him forward towards warmth. Hot breath against his ear. Wet. Upset. The words are scalding against the side of his head. “Don’t you do that. Don’t you fucking do that!”

***

He sits on Bucky’s bed as the man cleans his arm.

There’s a large fleece blanket beneath him. A carefully constructed pile of pillows behind his back. His own duvet across his legs. Lucky presses up against his side. Jarvis has cameras everywhere in their apartment Steve had explained as he’d brought Matt’s duvet. Bedrooms, bathroom, not just the living areas like the other apartments. It’s something they needed when Bucky was going through a hard time, and it had worked so well that they didn’t see a reason to take them out.

Matt needs that too, Steve said. Just until he starts feeling better.

Bucky’s movements are gentle. His breath comes a little too fast. Wet. Upset? He hasn’t spoken a word since explaining to Steve and Natasha what happened. His muscles are too tense. Frustrated maybe?

Natasha sits on the end of the bed, smelling like rose shampoo and sickly sweat. The only times she moves is to cough. “Matt. Were you trying to kill yourself?”

Matt takes a stuttered breath. He doesn’t know.

The smell of card and adhesive as Bucky sticks butterfly stitches on his arm. He’s sure he didn’t cut deep enough for that.

Natasha’s voice rasps. “Were you thinking about killing yourself?”

Yes, but he doesn’t do that. Suicide is giving up. He doesn’t do that. He always keeps going. No matter how hard things get he always has to keep going. He swallows past whatever giant lump is stuck in his throat. He remembers the feel of cold metal over his artery. He remembers wanting everything to stop. Why would he do that?

Lucky nudges his arm.

His fingers tremble as he strokes the dog.

“OK pal.” It’s hard to name the emotion in Bucky’s voice. Tense? Tired? Upset? Whatever it is there’s a lot of it. “You’re going to sleep here the rest of the night. We’ll figure out what to do next in the morning. You want Jarvis to play you that book of yours until you fall asleep?”

A sudden horrible thought hits him, and he can’t breathe. If Foggy is still angry because he thought Matt tried to kill himself, what is he going to be like now? He’s going to hate Matt. He’s going to leave.

“Breathe Matt. It’s OK.” The mattress shifts. Shuffling of cloth. Bucky drags something close to him. “I’ve got your communication aids here. Want to tell me what’s bothering you?”

Matt shakes. Lucky leans into his side. He pulls the PECS book out of the satchel, rocks a little as he finds the strip from before. ‘Foggy’ ‘Angry.’ This time it’s going to be true. He made a choice, and Foggy’s going to be so angry.

Bucky sighs. “We’ll tell him at six. That gives about four hours for sleep. Me and Steve will help you get ready tomorrow. We’ll try to keep him away from you until he has time to process. I’m not going to promise it’ll be fine, but I can promise that me and Stevie will do our best to buffer.”

A shift of the mattress as Natasha slips off it. Her too light footsteps leave the room.

Matt rocks, clenches his hair. It feels like his whole body is on fire. He wants the knife again, hates himself for it.

A jump in Bucky’s heart-rate. “Matt can I have your hand?”

Matt pushes himself off the bed. His heart races. His hand fumbles, finds the wall with his palm. Curling his fingers into a fist he draws his hand back.

Cold metal closes around his hand. “Don’t do that pal. Don’t do that. You need to hit, we’ll find you something better to hit than a wall. Come on. Come with me.”

“Natasha told me you might need some help,” Steve’s voice says once the air currents tell him he’s outside the bedroom. “Where are we going?”

“The gym. Need to work some of this tension out.”

***

Bucky’s different from Foggy. He’ll grab Matt’s hand if he’s about to hit a wall because “You never pull a punch, do you pal” but as soon as Matt snatches it away he doesn’t stop him. He crouches down next to Matt when he has to stop, curl up, hide behind his legs as he bites, because it’s all too much and Matt needs to make it stop. There’s a gentle tone to Bucky’s rough voice, and “you’re OK,” and “come on pal. Let me take your hand for a bit. It’ll be fine.” A “Is this OK?” and warm fingers smoothing through his hair with a care he thought only mothers were capable of doing to their children. Anna had done it to him that time he was sick.

Then there’s the elevator and Steve’s palm gentle behind his head as he taps it against the wall. “I have the fastest healing.”

Steve hums a tune Matt doesn’t recognise as he wraps Matt’s hand. No gloves, just wrappings. That’s good. Matt needs the tactile feedback right now.

Then he’s knocking his head into his knees because court is soon, people are soon, Matt screwed up again, Foggy’s going to be so mad. The sound of rubber hitting rubber in front of him. A smile in Bucky’s voice. No smile in his heart. “Come on Murdock. I’ve got the mitts on. Give me a left jab.”

It lasts for hours.

Bucky and Steve take turns with the mitts. Sometimes they trade them for a pad so long he can kick it. The sprain in his hip really doesn’t like that, but he can work through it. They taunt Matt, running backwards, because if he wants to hit he has to catch them. It’s frustrating. Sometimes so frustrating that he wants to stop and go searching for a bag or a wall or something, but they explain why they need to do it. His shoulder is better than before, but it still needs to heal. To avoid aggravating it he should run more than he hits to tire himself out. Less swing to his punches too so he doesn’t use the right shoulder blade too much every time he hits with his left arm.

“Jarvis said you had a situation,” Bruce’s voice says after what feels like a million punches and too much running.

“Yeah. Could say that.” A sigh. “Come on pal. Lie down. You’ve got to be tired out by now.”

He is tired, but he’s also completely on edge. Jittery like four days of no sleep and only coffee to drink. He sits on a daybed that wasn’t here the last time he came. It’s one of the softest things he’s ever sat on. He has the weighed blanket ready to be pulled over his legs. A fleece blanket by his left hand. He should rest. He’s passed out at least three times already, but he can’t stay down.

Fabric shifting as Bruce crouches. “Jarvis gave me a briefing. Sounds like a busy night. Anxiety?”

“A lot.” Steve’s voice from somewhere on the floor. “It’s like he can’t come down. He works himself out until he faints from exhaustion, then gets up and does it again. We’ve tried asking him questions when he’s catching his breath, but it’s the same things over and over. He’s anxious about court. People. Bucky’s made the same promise to keep them away he did last time. I think that helps, but he’s still anxious. And he’s worried that Foggy’s going to be angry.”

Bruce’s heart is slow and steady. It’s nice. “Did you ask about sedatives?”

“Yeah.” Bucky crouches close enough by the daybed to feel his warmth. “Didn’t go well. It’s like he doesn’t even want to think about deciding. Won’t talk through his views on any of it. It just. Hey pal. You’re alright. We’re just trying to figure out a way to help you. That’s all.”

It’s not all right. Everything is wrong. Matt screwed up, and now everything is wrong. He leans his head against his knees, bites deeper into his arm. The pain is supposed to chase all his thoughts away, but it doesn’t. The thoughts are still too loud.

“And you’ve tried everything else? Movies, touch, breathing?”

“Everything we can think of.” Worry in Steve’s voice. “We’ve had Jarvis playing the music he likes. He couldn’t focus on any movies. The breathing only works for a few seconds before he gets distracted. He’s responded well to the touch he’s accepted from Bucky, but he can’t seem to tolerate it for long.”

Gentle fingers smoothing through his hair. Bucky’s heartbeat. “Come on Matt. You’ve got your aids in front of you if you want to say something. No need to gnaw a freaking hole in your arm.”

Matt lets go of his arm. His heart pounds too fast in his chest. His head hurts. Plastic in front of him. He finds the sentence strips he made earlier. ‘Foggy’ ‘Angry’ and ‘Anxious’ ‘Court’ ‘People.’ Shoves them in Bucky’s direction.

He doesn’t want to go to court. He doesn’t want to go, and every minute takes him closer to going to court, and Foggy being angry.

“OK. There’s something that might work. Well, a couple things. First Jarvis, can you get someone to make and bring down some of my sleep tea.” Shifting as Bruce moves closer. “Steve. When’s the latest Matt will be back at the tower tonight? It needs to be the latest possible time. So we can guarantee that he’ll be here. Factor in traffic.”

“Six. It’s not a full day, so he should be back hours before that. But assuming everything goes wrong, he’ll still be back for six.”

“OK. Six is our promise.” Bruce’s heartbeat moves next to Bucky. He stays low. Sitting or crouched down. “Matt. I know you’re feeling terrible right now, but I need you to listen to me. It’s getting pretty scary in your head, right? You’re focusing on these horrible things you’re sure are going to happen. So we’re going to switch things up. We’re going to focus on something nicer. Today at six pm or sooner you’ll be back here in the tower. Six. That’s when everything’s going to be fine again. That’s how long Jarvis?”

“Twelve hours and forty-two minutes.”

“Court will be finished. You won’t have to go back for a while, if ever. You’ll come back here, and what?” A smile in Bruce’s voice. “What do you do when you come back to the tower?”

Matt blinks. The question catches him off guard. He’s not sure.

“You usually get changed, right? So what clothes are you going to wear? You’ve got a clothing section in your PECS folder. Show me?” There’s something nonthreatening about Bruce’s voice. Strange since he’s the Hulk. He sounds more like a shy kid who’s spent most of their life hiding in a corner.

Matt sits up straighter. His hand shakes as it reaches for the folder. Finds the page. ‘Soft clothes.’ His suit is OK, but it’s nowhere near as comfy as his softest sweatpants and hoodie.

“Let’s move the blanket so we can lay out what we’re going to do.” Scraping of fabric as Bruce pulls the weighted blanket to the bottom of the daybed. “Maybe put it up here.” Scratching of fabric. Bruce scraping it with a fingernail. “We can line them up and make a plan. Court ending is a big thing. You should plan what you’re going to do next.”

Matt places the ‘soft clothes’ card about where the scraping noise came from.

“Good. OK. At six pm or sooner, you come back to the tower, you change into soft clothes. Then what? I bet you’ll be tired. Tony should have your apartment wired by then. So are you going to rest in your apartment with your duvet or in the communal lounge with the weighted blanket?”

Matt takes a breath. It’s a little easier. He flips through the plastic pages, tears off the square for ‘communal lounge’ and sticks it next to soft clothes.

“At six pm or sooner you’ll come back to the tower, change into soft clothes, go down to the communal lounge and rest on the couch under the weighted blanket.” Bruce’s voice is soothing. The words are even more soothing. “What are you going to listen to while you rest? A book or some music?”

***

“We can pick up some on the way to court,” Steve says as Matt tries not to fall asleep in his bowl of oatmeal.

Matt turns his face towards Steve. After some of Bruce’s tea and a short nap under the heavy blanket, Bucky had persuaded him to have a bath in one of the giant baths built into the floor of a room near the gym. The water was warm. There were jets of water that massaged his skin. He’d slept through most of it, and he’s not sure he’s fully woken up yet.

Wood against wood as Steve shifts the kitchen chair. His heart beats a little too fast for him, but his voice is calm. “Sedatives. Fiona recommended xanax. A very small dose. You could try one today, any time you like. It should kick in thirty minutes from when you take it. It’ll last about four to six hours. Do you want me to remind you what it will do?”

Matt shakes his head rapidly.

“Stevie…” Bucky sounds tired. Metal against ceramic as he stirs his oatmeal. It smells like raspberries.

“I know Buck.” For a moment Steve sounds tired too, then that calm in control voice is back. “Matt. Foggy’s coming down soon and we’re going to the garage. Sam’s told him what happened, and he’s a little upset.” Steve’s heart changes its rhythm. A lie. Not a little upset Matt guesses. A lot upset. “I’d like to offer him something to make him happier. We can pick up some xanax on the way to court. You can tell him you agreed to try it. If court is really hard on you, you can try one then. If you’re really worried about side effects, then you can wait until after you get home. You can even wait until tomorrow. If you have a bad reaction we won’t make you try it again. If it works and you want to try it, you can use them and the antidepressant.”

Matt pushes his bowl away. He doesn’t want to think about this. His fingers find the braille list Bruce had printed out for him. The events of his day all neatly lined up. He scrolls past the horrible court bits to six pm when he’ll definitely be home. They’d decided he was going to listen to a book while resting on the couch. Then he’d wake up and they’d order Thai. Pad Thai for him. He gets to listen to a movie. Any one he wants. Fiona and Olivia will come, but he can decide not to see them if he wants.

Bucky sighs. “We’re not forcing you to take them pal. I wouldn’t do that to you. But how about we pick some up just in case? I’ll put the pills in my pocket, and they’ll stay there until you ask for them. Nothing changes. You want one, you ask for it. You don’t want one, you don’t. Simple.”

“Knowing you’re willing to try something that might help you feel better is going to make Foggy less upset.” Steve sounds so sure and honest. His words make so much sense that Matt hates him a little for it. “You want Foggy to be happier, right?”

Matt nods. Steve is evil.

He hates him a little less when Steve drops the topic, bantering with Bucky instead, then helps him shrug into Steve’s over-sized fleece lined jacket without a word of complaint.

***

Foggy doesn’t talk to him.

Matt sits in the limo in between Bucky and Steve. He holds his knees tight to his chest, squishing his plaster casted arm. He buries his whole body under Steve’s fleece lined jacket and tries to only think of six pm.

But Foggy doesn’t talk to him.

Foggy gets into the limo. All his muscles are tense. His heart is too fast. His breathing sounds tired. The limo is moving before he says his first words. “Jarvis spotted it?”

“We both agreed to keep our bedroom doors open so I could hear him, and so Lucky could get me if he needed to. Jarvis noticed he closed his. Also some potentially weird stuff with the drawers. So he asked me to check on him.” Bucky’s voice rumbles into his side. Matt’s not sure when he’d gotten that close.

“And the xananx?” Foggy says, words clipped.

“He’s going to try some.” Steve does that earnest voice again. Matt hopes it works as well on Foggy as it did on him. “Look I think he scared himself as much as he scared us. Natasha thinks it was a heat of the moment thing. He’s really trying to get better.”

Movement of hair. Bucky nods? “You saw how long he talked with Pepper yesterday. And last night when he was worrying about something he used his aids to tell me what it was so me and Steve could help him with it. I know it doesn’t seem like it sometimes, but he is making progress.”

“Sure.” Foggy scoffs. The sound is bitter and cold. “That’s why he’s got fresh bruises on his face and his hand looks like it’s been through a meat-grinder.”

His hand’s not that bad. It’s not even broken. The knuckles feel scraped. Maybe from when he hit a wall. Lots of aching, so it’s probably really bruised. He curls up tighter, hums under his breath. He’s not allowed to hurt himself. Foggy will get even more mad.

“Deep breath Foggy,” Steve says.

Foggy takes a deep breath. Even that sounds mad.

***

Matt tries. He tries really really hard. But his trying really hard is rarely good enough.

In the limo he asks Bucky to hold his hand when he wants to hit. He sits in the wheelchair even though he thinks he could walk, just so he doesn’t push himself too much. He keeps his knees to his chest, buries his head in them, hums, rocks, twists his hand, and doesn’t hit or bite. When he’s sitting next to Foggy and Marci in court and everything screams at him, he moves his head from his knees so he won’t be tempted to bang against them. He places his arm on the table instead and taps his forehead against it. There are a lot of bites, so they give him some feedback, but mostly it’s all cushioned with Steve’s jacket, so he’s not hurting himself.

Foggy tells him “Dammit Matt stop that!” anyway with what sounds like hate in his voice. And Matt’s so confused. He’s trying so hard. What is he still doing wrong?

Foggy’s angry footsteps wheel him outside the courtroom when they’re supposed to go wait until the Grand Jury makes their decision, then they walk away. Matt is alone in a corridor with other people’s footsteps around him. Heat around him. Marci’s perfume, but he can’t tell if that’s because she’s standing close by, or because she was standing close by and is now gone.

His breath hitches. There are burning lines down his face. Gritting his teeth he tries to make it stop. Does digging his fingers into his leg count as hurting himself? He’s not sure. He does it anyway, keeping his face hidden in his knees. He needs to stop crying. Sometimes he can cry quietly. That had come in handy when he’d shared a room with a dozen other boys as a teenager. But these sobs while not loud catch at his breath in a way that’s impossible to control.

The air currents move around him. Someone pushes the wheelchair. He can’t hear the heart through his headphones. Body temperature unusually warm. Large presence. Footsteps not uneven. Steve.

The air currents change. A smaller room. The wheelchair turns around. A grating sound as the brake is put on. A door closes. Fabric rustling as the warmth crouches down. “Hey Matt. Bucky found us an office to borrow for a little while. He’s gone to take a walk. He’s a little upset. Not about you, about Foggy.You’ve got your communication aids. If there’s anything you want to tell me, or anything I can do, you just need to ask.”

The tears keep falling. His breath keeps hitching. It’s pathetic. He’s pathetic. No wonder Foggy hates him.

“Maybe it will help if you tell me what’s wrong,” Steve says after a long period of silence and a bin moved by Matt’s side, and a pack of tissues placed on the armrest of the wheelchair.

Matt’s not sure if his PECS folder has the words for this, so his hand finds the small computer instead. But his head hurts, and his eyes hurt, Foggy is mad at him, and everything hurts, so he ends up typing only three letters. The smallest word he can think of right now that explains what this is. ‘Bad.’

“I don’t understand Matt,” Steve says, voice soft. “What’s bad?”

He taps one of the knees he’s hiding behind.

A moment of silence. A pained sound. “Matt. You’re not bad.”

He is. He’s bad and weak and pathetic. Even this is another example of how pathetic he is. He can’t even find a way to communicate in a faintly adult way how much he’s screwing up. He has to say ‘I’m bad’ like a child. But he is bad. He’s a bad, weak, pathetic person who doesn’t deserve any of the kindness people keep giving him.

He doesn’t deserve Foggy, but here he is crying because Foggy has finally had enough after all the things he put him through. He shouldn’t have clung to him so long. He shouldn’t have dragged him into this. He shouldn’t be like this in the first place. Maybe he should’ve cut through his artery. Torn through it so many fucking times that no one could bring him back. Hell, he knows where all his arteries are. He can feel them. He could sever as many of them as he can reach then this will be over. He won’t be such a fucking burden and all of this will stop.

“You’re not bad Matt. You’re a good person.You’ve helped so many people. You’re probably one of the best people I know.” Steve’s voice sounds honest, even if Matt can’t hear his heart.

Matt just needs to stop crying. Why can’t he stop?

“Matt? Can I touch you right now?”

What kind of person breaks down crying in a public area? He couldn’t even have one of his slightly more manly hyperventilation panic attacks. No, it has to be hysterical sobbing. In front of Captain America. All because his friend (ex friend?) told him off for something.

“I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder.” A warm palm presses flat against his left shoulder. It has Steve’s heartbeat. “You’re a good person Matt. You can hear my heartbeat, right? So you know I’m telling the truth when I say that you are a good man.”

Steve’s heart beats truth. He’s not sure how that’s possible. Part of him remembers before he was blind, reading Captain America comics some kids passed around at break time. Or the cartoon he sometimes managed to watch if his dad was out working. It seems strange that the Captain America even he’d idolised at one point could be wrong.

This is stupid. This is pathetic. He forces himself to take a breath. It tastes of boiling salt water. His hand goes to the small computer (Steve had managed to get them to let them take it into the building as an aid as long as it stayed out of the courtroom). He needs to type proper words this time.

‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be upset.’

“You’re upset. That’s fine. You have every right to be upset.” A pause. “Look. I’m going to text Foggy about what you said. About you thinking you’re bad. I think he needs to hear it.”

Matt presses his forehead into his knees. Deep breath. Stop crying. The heartbeat on his shoulder helps. His fingers find the keyboard. ‘It’s pathetic.’

“Matt.” Calm and firmness in Steve’s voice. “Remember when Bucky reacted to that movie we watched? He thought it was stupid that he got upset. Remember what we said? His feelings are valid. No matter what caused them. Your feelings are valid too. And I think that sharing some of those feelings might help get a dialogue going between you and Foggy again. Will you let me try it?”

Matt nods, the tears down to silent trickles. His head hurts. Everything always hurts so much..

A few minutes of silence. Matt uses them to scrub the last of his tears away. His glasses are all wet. He lets them fall into his lap, wiping at his eyes. He’s crying in front of people so much recently. He hates it.

“OK. Bucky’s given Foggy his phone to use. He’s ready. He wants to talk to you. Do you know how to message him on your computer?”

Foggy showed him, though he hasn’t tried that part of it yet. He lodges the small computer in the wheelchair next to him, picks up the ear-buds. Steve helps him lift the headphones enough to put the ear-bud in place. The sudden assault of sound is painful. Then the headphones are over the ear-buds and things are quiet again.

He finds the contacts. Scrolls through until the screen-reader says ‘Bucky’ in a slightly robotic female voice. Selects it.

How to start?

Steve said Foggy wanted to speak to him, but Foggy also yelled at him. Foggy’s really mad. Matt screwed up. He went from accidentally looking like he was about to commit suicide to actually thinking about committing suicide in one night. Trying to commit suicide? Was he about to try and commit suicide? He doesn’t know. That scares him. The idea that he might’ve been seconds from slicing into his artery. It’s all so out of control.

And he can’t pretend he didn’t hurt himself last night. The cut stings on his right arm. His left arm is a whole mass of aches from raw knuckles to bruise upon bruise of bite marks from fingers to elbow. He’s never had so many bites before. Then there’s the sharp pain of his hip sprain when he moves it wrong. All the aches from complaining ribs, shoulder, everything. The throbbing on the back of his head and forehead where he’d banged it.

He should apologise, but Foggy hates that. He should tell Foggy to leave, but his throat closes up at the idea that Foggy might do that. There’s only one thing he can say that might not make Foggy hate him more.

MATT: Feelings talk.

He checks it with the screen-reader, then presses send. A long few moments before a chirp says he has a reply. The screen-reader reads out the message automatically, telling him ‘Bucky’ before each one. Matt’s and Foggy’s phones are locked away at the security desk for them to pick up on the way out.

‘God yes.’

‘Can I go first? I have so many feelings. Seriously buddy, all the feelings.’

MATT: OK

Matt tries to push down the hope that flickers when Foggy still calls him buddy.

‘First off I’m angry. You tried to kill yourself Matt. How could you think about leaving me like that? It would break me. Have you not heard Brett rant about us? We are co-dependent assholes. That means I need you buddy. I need you to stick around.’

Matt leans heavily against his knees. The topic makes him feel like throwing up. He takes a breath. This is Foggy. He needs to talk to him. If he can’t do that in person, he can do it this way.

MATT: I wouldn’t have done it.

‘Really? Because Bucky says you had that knife in the exact place to do it. I need the truth Matt. Please don’t lie to me. Were you going to kill yourself?’

Matt takes a breath. It chokes in his throat. He closes his eyes, breathes before he starts typing again. He needs to be truthful. He can’t give Foggy an excuse to leave.

MATT: I don’t know.

‘OK. Let’s shelve that talk for now. Can you promise you won’t try to kill yourself again? I need the truth Matt.’

MATT: Yes.

‘Yes you can promise. Or yes you will try again?’

MATT: I promise I won’t kill myself.

‘Thank you.’

‘Can you promise you won’t cut yourself again?’

Matt grits his teeth. Foggy said to be honest.

MATT: No.

A long pause. Tapping sounds as Steve types on his phone. Maybe he’s talking to Foggy too?

‘OK. Shelve that for now. A lot of shelving. Onto the second thing. I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m short tempered and cranky and an asshole. I’m sorry for all the yelling I’ve done lately. I’m stressed. Court and everything. That’s part of why I leave sometimes. I know you hate conflict and apparently you’re sniffing me for anger now too.’

MATT: We’ll be back at the tower by six pm.

‘Yeah buddy. Bucky told me about that.’

MATT: You can rest then, if you want.

‘I want so much. We’ll be those old timers who take afternoon naps. It’ll be awesome.’

‘Your turn for a feelings talk. What are you worrying about?’

Matt takes a breath, then another. Tries to keep them deep and even.

‘Come on Matty. One thing? Just tell me what this latest thing was about. Was it because I yelled at you?’

“You’re OK Matt.” Steve’s voice. Soft. “You can tell him. Don’t think about how it sounds or how you think he’ll react. Just say it.”

MATT: You hate me.

‘Matty. I don’t hate you. I love you. That’s why I hate it when you hurt yourself. And all that crap about you being bad. That’s crap Matt. You’re good. You’re so good. You’re kind and protective and you care so much about people. You have a terrible sense of humour, but I guess that’s to balance out all the goodness that is Matt Murdock.’

‘Anything else you able to share with the class. Or are you all feelinged out?’

Matt bites his lip, shifts in the wheelchair before his fingers rest on the keys again.

MATT: Everything hurts. All the time.

MATT: I’m not allowed to be upset.

MATT: I can’t make it stop.

‘OK. This isn’t going to work.’

Matt straightens up as the screen-reader reads the words, his head raising from his knees. Foggy’s always trying to get him to talk, but maybe he said too much. He’s always revealing too much about himself to people and then they leave. Foggy hasn’t done that, but maybe this is finally too much for him to take. Matt should’ve known better.

‘I’m coming to give you a hug.’

‘Wrap you in fluffy blankets and feed you ice-cream and rainbows. Possibly cry over you a little. I don’t know man, I’m caught in emotions here. Brace yourself for embarrassing showerings of love.’

***

Embarrassing showerings of love mainly involve a very long hug. There are no fluffy blankets, though he does have Steve’s fleece jacket. Bucky goes for ice-cream. It’s not as nice as the kind he has at home, but it’s thoughtful. Bucky gets him one that’s chocolate ice-cream with chocolate sauce encased in white chocolate shaped like a puppy. He traces the white chocolate shaped puppy until it starts melting and he has to eat it.

Foggy’s is the same in milk chocolate shaped like a bear. Matt’s not sure whether Bucky’s trying to say something about them or not.

Foggy gets a pack of skittles from the vending machine and mutters some nonsense about rainbows. Matt has a couple to be polite. For some reason they taste even worse than they usually do, but Foggy and Bucky end up splitting most of them. They argue about who gets more of which colours. Foggy puts his law school skills to good use and bargains himself what sounds like the best deal.

Foggy tries to approach seriousness again and offers to talk through some of the things Matt said, using Bucky’s phone and the computer so no one in the waiting room will hear. Matt admits to being ‘feelinged out’ and he drops it.

It’s a little OK, until it isn’t. Foggy isn’t as mad at him. At six pm everything will be good again. But the world still hurts. Things are still too much. Matt is now the kind of person who puts a knife to one of his arteries and thinks about cutting it. He can’t get his head around that. Court is still here. There are people in this building talking about him.

He’s not allowed to hurt himself. Foggy will yell at him again. He doesn’t want that.

Matt shifts in his wheelchair and offers his hand to Foggy.

“What. Oh. OK Matt. Got you.” Two hands wrap around his. A hiss. “I don’t think there’s a single inch here not black and blue.” Scraping as Foggy moves his chair closer to the wheelchair. Two thumbs run over his hand.

“I’ve got that pill if you want it Matt,” Bucky says from Matt’s other side.

“Could be a good idea Matty.” An edge to Foggy’s voice that Matt doesn’t like. “We’ll be called back in soon. If this works this could be the start of something really good. I’m not saying pop a xananx every time you get antsy. But when you’re anxious enough to make yourself look like you’ve lost a fight to a dozen hungry zombies, you need to find a way to take things down a few notches.”

Matt’s hand turns into a fist. Foggy still holds onto it.

“You won’t be in the courtroom for long,” Steve’s voice says from the other side of Bucky. “And if something does go very wrong in that time Foggy can cover you.”

“I’ll say you’re sick and wheel you out. I can make decent fake vomiting noises if I need to, and Marci can do her scary shark grin at anyone who tries to follow. Trust me, it’s terrifying. It’ll totally work.” Foggy's gentle fingers trace over Matt's wrist. Cool air on his forearm as his sleeves are moved. A shocked exhale of breath. Foggy's hand tightens around Matt's. "Make that two dozen zombies. Christ Matt. Please Matt. Please. I need you to try this." Pain in Foggy's voice.

Matt presses his forehead into his knees, wishing he could hide from the decision.

"Anything goes wrong we've got your back," Bucky says. "You don't need to worry."

Foggy's hand squeezes Matt's so hard his bruises scream. "Matt?"

Matt nods against his knees.


	22. Chapter 22

The change is subtle.

Matt's sitting in the courtroom, focusing on six pm, and the tower, and everything being safe again. It's forty five minutes since he'd taken the half pill. A really small dose. The smallest dose cut in half again. He's not sure what he's expecting. The giddiness of one too many beers maybe.

He's starting to think that it's too low a dose, despite his low tolerance to most substances, when he notices it.

He's sitting with his head resting on his knees, his arm loosely wrapped around his legs. They're reading off the indictments they want to file against Matt, and he hasn't had the urge to hit himself for at least five minutes.

The anxieties are still there, but they're more like dull worries instead of sharp panic. Is this what life was like before three weeks ago? He doesn't remember.

***

"I can't believe they're sending this to supreme court," Marci grumbles from the opposite side of the limo. "Wasting all that money on trumped up charges. And that resisting arrest charge. How did they justify having enough evidence to indict that?"

"Meh." Fabric shifting. Foggy makes some kind of movement. "I'm shrugging my shoulders in a very laid back manner by the way Matt. There's no way they'll be able to convict him of that. Everyone knows how many cops Fisk had under his thumb."

"Exactly my point." Marci's voice gets kind of low and gravely when she's really annoyed by something. Dangerous. Foggy calls it her shark lawyer voice. "So how didn't that charge get thrown out with the other resisting arrest charge?"

"They had no choice but to throw out the other charge. Every one of those cops was found dirty. Same with all those assault charges. In some cases all they had was a convicted criminal claiming that the guy who stopped them committing the crime that witnesses saw them carry out got too rough. They were throwing every charge they could at him. The assault charges they managed to make stick make a little more sense. You have a bad habit of beating up people way worse than is reasonable Matt, but a few are building their cases on witnesses clearly lying out of their asses. A little sleuthing from Karen and our new PI ought to fix that."

Ten assault charges indicted. One first degree assault, and nine second degree. One resisting arrest charge. Still enough to lock him away for years. He should worry, but court is over. They get to go back to the tower. They don't have to go back to court for weeks with the exception of arraignment. Foggy and Marci have this.

Matt traces Bucky's metal arm, feeling the edges of the interlocked pieces of metal. The surface is oddly smooth. Very few dents, and the dents there are so faint he's not sure if anyone without super-senses could find them.

Marci gives a frustrated sigh. "Either you have a lot of bad luck Murdock. Or someone high up hates you. What I want to know is, do they hate you because of Daredevil, or is this something else?"

The mention of his second name snaps him out of it long enough to realise what he's doing. He's leaning over Bucky to reach the man's metal arm. He's putting his hand all over it without permission. He jerks backward, focusing his senses on Bucky to try and gauge his reaction.

No anger. No wet in the breathing he can hear through his headphones. Bucky's breath is a little stuttery. Confused maybe? It's hard to tell with the headphones on. "It's - uh - it's OK pal. A lot of people are curious about the arm. You can - you can look at it if you want to." There's something strange about his voice. Resigned maybe? Like he expected this to happen.

Matt's about to sit on his hand or something. Stop his absentminded fiddling. When there's shifting of fabric as Bucky turns in his seat. Leather against metal as he pushes his jacket sleeve out of the way. Movement of air against his skin as something moves in front of Matt and stays there.

Matt reaches out. Cold metal against his fingers. Smooth edges slotting into each other like the pieces of a puzzle. Bucky's wearing a leather glove over his hand. Matt moves the fingers slowly, hoping to hear that machinery work deep inside the arm. Nothing. No noise.

"It's wired into the major muscles around my arm," Bucky says, that resigned tone in his voice. It sounds like he's talked about this before, many times. "Some of the bones too. Ribs. Scapula. It's pretty heavy so it needs some rigging. And some of the muscles. They had to replace them with artificial ones. So it would pack more of a punch. They upgraded it every now and again. But I think some pieces of the casing are mostly the same. Tony thinks there’s some special metal in it, possibly Vibranium alloy like Steve’s shield. Titanium alloy’s the best bet for the rest."

No noise because of the headphones. He slips them off, and ouch. A wall of sound hits him. Heartbeats. Voices. The engine of the limo, so loud. The driver is chewing gum. Matt's hand closes around the leather glove, squeezing his eyes shut against the assault.

"Matt?" Foggy's voice. Concerned.

A stutter in Bucky's breath. Then the metal fingers fold lightly over his own. A noise. Faint from deep inside the arm. Machinery as the fingers move. "Pal?"

Matt lets out the breath he'd been holding. Slowly he moves Bucky's arm, folding it at the elbow. More noise. Sounds like pistons firing. He moves it back straight. Letting go of Bucky's hand, he does what he's wanted to do from the start and taps his fingernails against the metal forearm.

The sound that echos is small but so amazingly crisp. Most sound-waves are all wobbly and distorted. To make a picture in his head of his surroundings he has to take a lot of them and work out the average. Even then it's usually vague shapes and positions. Some sound-waves offer him a crisper view, like metal. But this is a whole other level of detail.

The sound-waves are small, so it's not a complete picture. He gets bits and pieces. Some like the distorted feedback from the glass separating them from the driver and outside world is nothing out of ordinary. Others are. There's an echo of something light hanging to the sides of Bucky's vague head shape. It takes a while to realise it's his hair. Usually he can only tell someone has hair from the sound it makes brushing against something. The echoes he gets from the world around him isn't usually enough to 'see' it.

Now he can see it. The information is gone as rapidly as it came, but he's sure it wasn't even the vague blocks of hair he sometimes gets. He's sure the sound-waves echoed off something smaller. Strands of hair sticking away from the rest. He's never been able to see that level of detail before.

Marci snorts. "Murdock. You look like you've discovered a unicorn."

He needs something else to tap against it. Something that will make larger sound-waves than his fingernails. His hand searches in his satchel, finds the cane he'd stored in there. It's still folded up.

Matt raises his eyebrows at Bucky in question. Gestures to the arm still in front of him and taps the air with the folded up cane.

Bucky swallows heavily. "You asking if you can hit it?"

Matt shakes his head rapidly. No. No way. He taps the air with the folded up cane again, this time a lot slower.

"You want to tap it?" Bucky's heart flutters. Confusion in his voice.

Matt nods.

Steve's voice. Soft. "Can you tell us why Matt?"

Is this wrong? Is he not supposed to? Bucky's list had said ask first about anything to do with the arm. Matt had forgot, and that was bad, but then Bucky said he could look at it. He lifts his knees to his chest again, points towards his ear with the hand holding the cane.

Bucky's heart jumps. Surprise. "You like the sound it makes?"

Matt nods.

Bucky laughs. A bark that turns into a rough rich sound. It's nice. The seat vibrates underneath him. There's something relieved in the noise. "You telling me Murdock that I have millions of dollars worth of grade A killing machine here, and you want to play drums on it?"

Matt tilts his head, carefully picking apart the tones of Bucky voice, listening to his heartbeat. He sounds happy. Matt nods.

"Sure pal," Bucky sounds gleeful. "Knock yourself out.”

***

Bucky’s rumbling voice vibrates through his side, pulling him out of sleep. “I don’t get it. He’s what? One, two, inches shorter than me? How’s he curl up so small?”

His headphones are back over his ears, but he can hear and feel enough to know the engine of the limo has stopped. Back in the tower. It adds to the warm relaxed feeling in his chest.

“One of the mysteries of Matt Murdock.” A smile in Foggy’s voice, but a lot of sadness too. “There are many.”

Bucky’s breath stutters for a few moments before he talks again. “Back in the bakery. When he recognised my heartbeat. He looked so relieved, you know? And desperate. Like he was drowning and my hand was the only thing keeping him above water. But also like he was steeling himself for me to make him let go. Like he was sure that’s what was going to happen.”

“Yeah.” Foggy sighs. “That one never stops breaking your heart.”

“He’s all…” Bucky says quietly. “He gets so scared sometimes. So I’ve been wondering…”

“Why you?” Steve asks, voice soft from the other side of Matt.

“People are either fascinated by me because I’m a weapon, or scared of me because I’m a broken weapon. I’m the bad guy. Deep down in everyone’s heads I’ll always be the bad guy.”

“Buck.” Pain in Steve’s voice. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” Bucky says firmly. “My point is, people look at me, they see the Winter Soldier or they see something broken. So how come, out of all the heroes in this tower, I’m the one he trusts to watch his back? Why’d he choose me?”

Silence for a moment. Matt takes in his position, too warm and comfortable to want to move. Somehow he’s curled up against Bucky’s side, two of Bucky’s metal fingers still clutched in his left hand.

“At first I think he chose you because he thought you’d be the least likely to pity him.” Softness in Foggy’s voice. “Afterwards, that was all you. You proved again and again that he could trust you. I don’t think it would’ve happened so fast if he wasn’t even more spectacularly messed up than he usually is. He’s - Matt is this weird mess of getting comfort from people he trusts, and hating having to rely on anyone. It takes a lot for him to seek comfort from someone. Some of this is that he needs more comfort right now, and I haven’t been the most reliable lately.” His voice turns strained. Upset? “But you’re the one that proved to him it was safe to trust you. The fiddling and everything is standard relaxed Matt behaviour. I can’t count the amount of times I’ve passed out near him when he’s tipsy and woken up with him using me as a teddy bear, half my hair in braids, and my jacket creased from where he’s been playing with it. But even when he’s actually relaxed for once he only does that with people he trusts. So yeah. You earned that Barnes. Just appreciate it, OK? You break his heart I’ll sue you.”

Bucky swallows. His voice is quiet. “I do appreciate it. It’s been a long time since someone’s trusted me. I - I ain’t planning on walking away.”

“Good because I’ve seen what he’s like when someone he trusts walks away. It’s not pretty. He can’t take that right now.” Movement. Something he can’t tell through the headphones. Foggy makes a short noise that sounds like a weak laugh. “I can’t believe I’m giving Bucky Barnes the shovel talk.”

Steve chuckles, making the seat vibrate.

Bucky splutters, jerking upright. “I’m not - It’s not-”

Matt makes a noise of protest as his comfortable position is ruined. Bucky’s warm arm wraps around him as if in apology.

“Chill Barnes.” A smile in Foggy’s voice. “The friendship shovel talk. I’m not implying anything. Now that sleepyhead is finally awake, what do you say we go inside?”

***

Matt fiddles with the softball as Bucky removes the stitches from his feet.

The heavy blanket is folded up and gone, but Lucky is still curled up by his side where he’d settled during Matt’s rest (it sounds weird to call it a nap even though that’s definitely what it was). He’d slept over an hour. Long enough for Foggy to go to and come back from his therapy appointment with Maurice.

Foggy sits on one of the armchairs, oddly quiet. Steve had warned Matt that Foggy might want space today after what happened. Steve crouches at the coffee table with Clint, playing some kind of card game. Or rather, Steve is beating Clint at some kind of card game, and Clint is trying to work out how he’s cheating.

“I’m not cheating,” Steve says. His heart skips. Lie.

“Matt?” Natasha croaks from the smaller couch. “Is Steve cheating?”

Matt nods, then tosses the ball into the air and catches it absentmindedly.

Clint gives a shocked gasp. “I knew it!”

Bucky does something that makes Matt’s whole leg twitch. The ball drops on his stomach where Lucky sniffs it. Matt glares in Bucky’s general direction.

“I’m not trying to tickle you pal.” A tugging sensation on the sole of his foot as Bucky takes another stitch out. This time he’s even more careful not to touch the area around the wound. “Not my fault you’re so damn ticklish.”

Matt huffs, picking up the ball. Pauses. The hum of the elevator. He tilts his head, picking up a familiar heartbeat. He jerks upright from his slumped position.

Bucky makes a frustrated sound. “Matt would you quit-” his breath stutters. When he speaks again his voice is softer. “Stay still. OK?”

Matt tilts his head back against the pile of pillows, focusing on Foggy’s heartbeat in the armchair behind and to the left of him. “Fog - fog.-” The words come out cracked and hoarse. He pauses with his hand pointing towards the elevator, frowning. How long has it been since he last spoke?

Foggy’s heart skips surprise. “As nice as it is to hear your voice Matt, I’m not sure why you feel the need to direct my attention to the back of the couch.”

Matt rolls his eyes and moves his hand upward so it points over the back of the couch. It’s hard to remember to take solid objects into account when he can hear around them.

The elevator doors whoosh open. Karen’s footsteps click out. Heels that sound slightly more comfortable than her usual pair. “Luke Cage is out of luck, because I am going to marry Jessica Jones!”

“Cool.” A smile in Foggy’s voice. “Can I be your best man? Wait. Does a marriage between two women have a best man? I think I can rock a dress if you want me to be maid of honour?”

Karen’s heels click over to Foggy. Knocking of plastic against cardboard. Carrying something plastic in a cardboard box. “I will allow you and Matt to be my best men or maids of honour. Whichever you’re more comfortable with. Hey Matt.” Karen’s heart jumps out of its relaxed rhythm. “God Matt. Your hand. What happened?” Fabric shifting as she kneels next to the couch. The thump of cardboard against carpet. “Did someone hurt you?”

Soft hands around his. Matt blinks rapidly and reminds himself it’s Karen.

“No one hurt him,” Foggy says. The words are heavy with things unsaid.

A long moment of Karen’s heart beating too fast. “OK,” she says finally sounding choked. Her heart slows. “OK.” Her voice sounds calmer this time. Her hands don’t leave his. “I brought you something Matt. From Foggy’s.”

Matt places the ball down by his side. Lucky tries to reach across him to sniff at it. He pushes the dog’s muzzle away.

Cardboard against cardboard. Karen taking the lid off the box she brought. She taps the back of his hand.

He turns it over automatically. Plastic placed in his palm. He closes his fingers over it. Plastic textured into the mottled appearance of leathered skin. A bulky body with a tail, a long ridge around its head, two horns on its head and another on its nose. He smiles. His and Foggy’s plastic dinosaurs. This one is Cera, the triceratops.

“Cool!” Clint’s voice goes too high pitched. “You’ve got dinosaurs! Can I see?”

Matt tosses Cera in Clint’s direction. The sound of plastic against flesh, then carpet. Clint didn’t catch it.

Movement. The smell of cardboard. Karen holds the box towards him. He shifts, setting it on his lap.

“Matt,” Bucky says, sounding exasperated. “I’ve got like three stitches left. Hold still.”

Matt shifts again just because he can.

Movement of hair as Bucky shakes his head. “Brat.”

Matt searches the box with his hand. All the dinosaurs are there. He fingers each of them in turn, stroking their smooth bellies and mottled backs. He takes out Spike the Stegosaurus. It’s his favourite to fiddle with. It has sharp plastic spikes, bumps, mottled skin, a smooth belly. Lots of different textures to run his fingers over.

“So our new PI is a good idea then?” Foggy asks from the armchair.

“She’s amazing.” Awe in Karen’s voice. “Unusual and kind of abrasive, but amazing. I’m learning so much. Her sleuthing skills are just wow, you know? By the time we go back to Nelson and Murdock, I’m going to be unstoppable. Karen Page, receptionist and expert investigator.”

Nelson and Murdock. He can still smell their musty office, now trashed. The idea of going back there makes his chest ache. How would that be possible even if he’s found not guilty?

“And done.” Shuffling as Bucky packs up the first aid kit. “I’d like to say thanks for behaving, but we know that’s not true. Hey, you got any Velociraptors in there? They were always my favourite.”

Putting Spike down on Lucky’s curled up body, Matt searches for Fast Biter, tosses him to Bucky. Clink of plastic against that interesting metal as Bucky catches him.

“Oh.” Karen shifts. Sitting on the floor near the couch? “How about a T Rex?”

Matt hands her Red Claw. She takes it gently from his hand.

“A great thing happened.” Skin against plastic as she turns the dinosaur over in her hands. “I don’t know if you heard. A group of people from Hell’s Kitchen found out what happened to the office. They fixed it. It’s amazing. They cleaned it, put new paint in, replaced all the furniture, the equipment, the locks. We even have a couch now. It looks better than before. They organised a fund on-line to cover rent for the office and yours and Foggy’s apartment, and any expenses during all this. So many people donated. I don't think they have a name, but they consider themselves part of the savedaredevil movement. They've even started a petition to get the charges against you dropped. I think your priest Father Lantom is the leader."

Matt's not sure what to think about that, so he focuses on Clint who with some very historically inaccurate air-plane noises appears to be making Cera fly through the air.

"Matty?" Foggy asks from the armchair. His voice still has that weary note. "Can I have Ducky?"

Matt finds the Parasaurolophus, throws her to Foggy.

A frown in Steve's voice. "Ducky?"

"Yep, yep, yep," Foggy says, voice rising to imitate Ducky's chirpy tone. "We named them after characters from The Land Before Time. We get one from the museum gift shop every time we go. Our first was Cera the triceratops, because that name is too perfect not to. Then it kind of evolved from there."

"Oh my God." A smile in Karen's voice. "You two are total dorks!"

"You say that like it's a surprise to you." Fabric against plastic. Foggy moving Ducky along the arm of the armchair?

"I haven't seen The Land Before Time," Steve says quietly.

"It's good, but it's a bawl fest. Seriously. There's a scene in there that made the whole deal with Bambi's mom look like a happy dance. Or maybe that's just my traumatised younger self talking. Heads up Matty." Movement as Foggy throws Ducky back his way. A slow easy throw aimed to hit his stomach instead of his head.

Matt raises the cardboard box and catches her in it. He'd watched The Land Before Time back in undergrad with Foggy. They'd been recovering from exams, which always left Matt feeling hollowed out. Foggy had chosen The Land Before Time then Lilo and Stitch afterwards because "that's got to be happier. I remember that being happier."

Matt may have had a minor breakdown, and Foggy was banned from choosing movies for two months. Not that he hated them. Lilo and Stitch is one of his favourites, and the fact that Little Foot eventually managed to forge such a strong family after losing his own really spoke to him. But you can love a movie and also never want to see it again, ever.

"Clint." Bucky sounds exasperated. "Triceratops don't fly. You're not even doing it right."

The air-plane sounds stop. "You want to come over here and say that bro?" Clint asks in a exaggerated deep voice. "I'll skewer you with one of my horns and eat you!"

"Triceratops are herbivores, not carnivores." Tapping of strange metal against cardboard. "Can I borrow this Matt? For the good of science."

Matt nods.

Bucky takes the box away. Rummaging noises as he looks through it. "If you're going to play with dinosaurs, you're going to do it right."

***

"Cept now they say they had feathers-"

Bucky is a dinosaur nerd. Steve seems mildly into it too, occasionally interjecting with some small fact, but his voice doesn't have the brimming enthusiasm Bucky's does. Karen apparently knows way too many facts about carnivore dinosaurs and helps Bucky teach Clint how some of them were likely to attack.

It's creepy listening to her talk about Velociraptors having a claw perfect for disembowelling, or how the jaw strength of a T Rex is believed to be too weak to bite straight through most of its prey, and it would have to tear instead. It's odd to think that there's so much about Karen that neither he nor Foggy know about.

"Matt? Did you hear what I just said?" Fiona's voice asks from the other chair.

They're in the games room on the communal floor. It smells like pool chalk, plastic, and cork board. A large room with many soft chairs, some kind of complex dartboard he hasn't had time to explore, a few cupboards full of games, a pool table, a table tennis set up, a small bar, an old fashioned looking arcade machine that according to Foggy has most old games on it, and even a bowling alley in a corner.

Matt shakes his head. In the soft chair by his side Foggy stiffens.

"I said I'm going to ask you something." Fiona's voice is steady, her movements as casual and confident as they usually are. She still smells mostly of cats and coffee. "And I need you to be ready to raise three fingers if you need me to change to a different topic. OK?"

Matt nods, wary. Lucky's head is a solid presence on his knee. He tries to draw comfort from the dog's calm heartbeat. He hadn't had to meet with Fiona today, but had decided to anyway. With the xanax in his system making him calmer than usual, he might as well make the most of it.

Movement of plastic and paper. Fiona shifts, the clipboard in her lap shifting with her. "Matt. Do you understand that you were raped?"

Matt flinches, raises three fingers. His satchel with its communication aids almost falls off his lap.

"OK," Fiona says evenly. Her heart stays steady. "New topic. The flashbacks. I'm not going to ask about them. I just want to know if you ever think about them once they're over. Do you ever take the time to go over them in your mind?"

He shakes his head. Why would he? He doesn't want to think about them while they're happening, much less afterwards when he has more of a choice.

"From what you and Foggy have told me, it seems like you've had relatively few flashbacks recently, but the ones you've had have hit you very hard. I'm going to suggest a few reasons for that. Raise three fingers if you want me to stop talking. But if you can I'd like you to listen. Is that OK?"

Matt strokes Lucky's head, nods.

"One is I don't think you've fully processed what happened to you. You're still repressing things on some level. And I'll hazard a guess that you think about memories of the event as little as possible. I'm not saying that you should spend every waking moment over-analysing each flashback forever. What I am saying is that if you don't accept the bare facts of what happened, and try to process some of the memories around it, you're unlikely to move forward. Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

He needs to accept that he's been - he needs to accept that he's been -

Matt grits his teeth. He can't even think the word. His mind flinches away from it.

Lucky nudges the satchel. Matt strokes his head. His arm shakes.

"Matt?" Foggy's voice. Trembling.

Matt nods.

Fiona's voice stays calm. "You've done a good job at learning how to ground yourself. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think so far your focus during a flashback has been to block it out as quickly as possible. That's good. That's been the right course of action up until now. But as you get used to grounding yourself during a flashback, I'd like you to consider not blocking it out so quickly. Our next course of action will be you learning to ground yourself in reality while still watching the contents of the flashback. This won't be applicable every time. But when you can do it, it will help you process those memories faster and help them not have such a scary hold on you. Think you can listen to me explain how to do that?"

Matt nods.

Fiona explains how to best straddle the world between flashback and reality. Matt listens as best as he can while playing with the soft fur around Lucky's neck. Then they talk about medication. Fiona leads him to the uneasy conclusion that he should try both antidepressant and sedatives. She somehow makes it feel less a choice than an inevitable conclusion after his difficulties with anxiety and his positive reaction to xanax. But she does make sure he knows he can back out at any point.

When they get to what happened last night with the knife, Matt manages to nod when she asks if he's had any suicidal thoughts since then.

Foggy gets up and leaves the room.

The rest of the session is a blur of Fiona's words, Lucky's nudging, and Foggy's heartbeat no longer on the communal floor. There's talk of exercise, and a tiny book of things he needs to remind himself of every day. There's only one statement in it for now. A line of braille letters glued to the first page. It physically hurts when he runs his hand over it for the first time.

'I was raped, and it's OK to be upset about it.'

***

"Pal you're eating remember?" Bucky's a solid presence on his right side, on Foggy's couch cushion.

Matt digs his fork into his Pad Thai. He can't find the energy to bring it to his mouth. From the television the audio description talks about some dinosaur chasing some person. The dino mania led to discussion of dinosaur related movies, and he'd picked Jurassic Park to watch.

"He's like this sometimes," Steve says, voice soft from the far side of the large couch. Talking to Karen maybe? She sits between Steve and Bucky. "You don't need to worry."

The tray feels heavy on his lap. He leans sideways slowly until his temple rests against Bucky's shoulder. He needs something. He's not sure what he needs, but he needs something.

The feel of Bucky's heart is muffled through the metal shoulder, but Matt hears his heart speed up. Bucky's voice manages to be both soft and rough. "It's OK pal. Foggy ain't mad. Promise. He just needs some space. He's gone to see Marci, like I said, but he'll be back tonight. You didn't do anything wrong, OK?"

The words help.

"Now why don't you eat something? Come on. Put away half of that and I'll quit bugging you."

Matt straightens up, starts eating.

***

"Murdock make me some soup," Natasha croaks from her makeshift bed.

They'd settled out in the games room after the movie. It's still not yet five pm, so no one else is back yet. He and Bucky made the bed out of a row of the soft chairs and copious amounts of blankets. Clint had tried to help, but ended up getting in the way more than anything. Karen stood by and offered suggestions. While Steve carried a pathetic sounding Natasha through to her new throne.

There's junk in her lungs and her throat sounds sore, but he's pretty sure her fever is nowhere near as bad as Foggy's got. There's a note of humour hidden some of her requests. Who knew that the Black Widow milked things when she got sick?

Matt drops the tug toy he's been playing with Lucky anyway, turning his face in Natasha's direction. If anyone deserves to be fussed over it's her. He's caught wind of enough rumours to guess she didn't have the best start in life. Not that anyone in the Avengers seems to have a cheery past. Maybe it's some kind of criteria for joining.

"Pea soup," she clarifies. "I'm really hungry." She takes her performance up a notch with a fake sounding cough that quickly transforms into a real one.

"I'll go with you!" Clint shouts from where he's showing Karen how to throw darts. His footsteps hurry over. "I need to go to the communal lounge for reasons totally unrelated to soup or you being around sharp cutlery or-" he sighs. A heavy drawn out sound. "I'm really bad at this. Can we pretend I said something subtle and awesome?"

Matt flashes him an OK sign. It stings a little that he needs a babysitter to walk to a room just down the hallway, but he will be inches from sharp knives. It's not like he can blame them after last night.

Shifting from near the pool table. Bucky's voice. "Clint, are you sure you-"

A smack of flesh against fabric and flesh. Not violent. Steve patting Bucky on the shoulder? "Buck it's fine. Dial down the Mama Bear routine a few notches."

"Screw you Rogers." No heat to Bucky's words. A tap then a click as he takes a shot with the pool cue.

Karen ends up following them, heart fluttering with nerves. Had she known about the knife incident before Clint implied Matt couldn't be around sharp cutlery? He's not sure. From her reaction to his hand, she probably didn't.

He's not sure he should care. What's one more people knowing his secrets?

The cans are labelled. He finds one for pea soup easily enough. He's searching the labels of the cupboards to find a saucepan when Clint hops up to sit on the breakfast bar.

Matt freezes. Lucky leans against his legs.

"Whoa." Alarm in Clint's voice. "Too much looming? Here. Is this better?" Shifting of fabric against marble. The heat lowers. Clint lies down on the breakfast bar.

Matt tilts his head, shoulders relaxing. He gives Clint a bemused look. Most people would've just hopped down.

"Better?" A hopeful note in Clint's voice.

Matt nods, starts his search for the saucepan again.

Karen's footsteps make their hesitant way to the fridge. They still in front of it. Looking at something? Her muscles go tense. Looking at his list, he guesses. A lot must've been added since she was last here. Something about knives is probably on there.

Clint sings as Matt cooks, pausing mid-word to help him find something he's looking for. He has a terrible singing voice. More off key than Foggy's. But he has enthusiasm, and that makes up for it. Mostly.

"So I was thinking," Clint breaks off his song to say. He'd been right in the middle of a chorus to some pop song. The abrupt change almost makes Matt drop the spoon he's stirring the soup with. "We should be friends. I mean, if you want. You too Karen. You'd be a great friend too. A scary friend, but a good friend."

"Aw." No deception in Karen's heart. She's genuinely flattered. "You're scared of me? That's so sweet."

"You wanted a T Rex as a pet when you were seven so it could eat your enemies. Hell yes I'm scared of you. Friends?"

Is Matt the only one who thinks that's an odd basis for a friendship?

"Friends," Karen says solemnly. Her heels click their way to the breakfast bar behind Matt. "But you have to teach me your awesome Avenger fighting skills."

Matt stills.

"My awesome Avenger fighting skills?"

"I don't know what you call them."

"Fighting skills usually does the trick." Slide of short hair against marble. Clint tilting his head? "Why?"

"All of my friends except Foggy are superheros, and even he has some judo and some neat skills with a softball bat. I need to keep up with the bell curve. So mister, do we have a deal or not?"

Matt heard what she did to that officer who tried to attack her. She's not without skill already, and she has plenty of steel. He forces himself to push aside the distaste that rises at the thought of her fighting. With a little formal training she'd be formidable, and there might be a day where she needs that.

"We shall seal our deal with the most sacred of acts." Fabric against marble. Clint shifting his arm.

Karen's heart skips surprise. "A pinky promise?"

"A pinky promise." Nothing but seriousness in Clint's voice.

Grasping of skin against skin. The pinky promise presumably.

"Yes! Up one friend!" Does he collect them like Pokemon? "What do you say Matt? Want to make it two?"

Matt turns around to tilt his head at him questioningly. He hasn’t had many friends, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t how adults usually go about making them. Five year olds, yes. Adults, no.

“Come on.” Pleading in Clint’s voice. A note of hesitation too. “I’d be a good friend. Ignore whatever Bucky’s said about me. I could teach you sign language? And we can totally parkour together. I mean, I love parkouring. You obviously love parkouring. We can love parkouring together.”

Matt points at the sling on his right arm.

“We can wait until you get that off for the more extreme stuff. That’ll be what? Three weeks? Plus at least another couple for physio.” Clint’s breath stutters. Suddenly he sounds terribly small and vulnerable. “Unless you don’t want to be friends with me? I know I can be a bit of a screw up sometimes.”

Matt gives the soup a final stir and turns it off. Finds the small computer in his satchel. He types quickly. Without the ear-buds in, the robotic female voice reads the words out to the room.

‘It’s not that. You don’t know me.You might not like me once you do.’

Shifting of fabric against marble. Clint pushes himself up on his elbows. “Sure I know you. I like you. You’re pretty awesome.”

Matt shakes his head firmly. Turns back to the computer.

‘You don’t know me.’

Fanboying over grainy pictures of Daredevil for the past however many months isn’t knowing him. Watching from the sidelines as he loses it isn’t knowing him. Clint doesn’t know Matt at all. If he did, he wouldn’t ask to be his friend.

“A compromise,” Karen’s voice says from near Clint’s feet. “Matt, you agree to let Clint hang out with you sometimes and get to know you. Clint, hold off on the declarations of friendship until you and Matt are more comfortable around each other. Sound doable?”

Movement. Clint nodding his head? “Yes Ma’am.”

Matt nods, and then because Clint sounds a little disappointed, holds out his pinky finger towards the other man.

Scrambling of fabric against marble as Clint hurries to return the pinky promise. Smack of flesh against wood as he falls to the floor instead.

***

Foggy’s still not back when Matt agrees to see Olivia that night.

Everyone is in the tower except Tony and Bruce who are fighting some kind of monsters spotted out in a desert some place. Mice the size of trucks, he’d heard Sam say. Matt’s not sure what it does for his sanity that the rest of the team had hummed non-committedly, then gone back to arguing over whose turn it was to cook now Bruce couldn’t.

It’s a little past six. Around six hours after he took the xanax. He’s still feeling a lot calmer than he has lately, and he’s eager to see if he can finally get through his statement.

He types quickly at the small computer. Jarvis had connected it wirelessly to Olivia’s laptop, so the words appear on her screen. He can do this. He’s not anxious. Not much. He hasn’t hurt himself since the pill kicked in.

Fiona said he was having problems accepting what happened. So here he is. He can face up to what happened that night. Admit it instead of hiding from it. He can do that, right? Just get it out. Like Bucky said. Get the pus out.

If he starts doing things right, maybe Foggy won’t be so upset all the time.

‘They took my suit off,’ he types. This isn’t so bad. He can do it. He just needs to stop over-thinking things and say them. ‘I fought back. I managed to punch the second one I described. In his injured knee. The top of my suit was off. He got angry. That was when he broke my arm with the baseball bat. I fell down.’

Something cold creeps over him. It’s hard to swallow. He’d only made it to his knees that time, but of course they knocked him down again. ‘He hit me again. I think that’s when my shoulder blade broke. Then he stomped on my hand and broke my fingers. After that they took the rest of my suit off. Kicked me a few times in the ribs to keep me down.’ What happened next? He doesn’t remember. ‘Things went a bit hazy. They insulted me for a while. Kicked me. Hit me. Shouted at me.’

Then what happened? Then what happened? Something cold and wet touches his arm. He flinches. Lucky. It’s only Lucky. He strokes the dog’s head.

“Do you want to take a break?” Olivia stays perfectly still in the chair across the table from Matt. She exudes calm and patience. The second heartbeat in her abdomen beats strong.

His first instinct is to shake his head. Of course it is. But that’s something he needs to avoid too, isn’t it? He pushes himself too far, he crashes, sometimes violently. He needs to try and do this right. So he nods instead. Pats his lap and spends a few minutes with Lucky’s weight across his legs, playing with the soft fur around his neck, and concentrating on breathing slow.

It’s really weird to stop in the middle of a task when he knows he should push through. He thinks it helps. When his hand returns to the computer, his heartbeat is slower than it was.

But he can’t remember what happened next. He blinks, searching for the memory. It doesn’t come. Instead there’s fragments like broken glass. Pain. Hands hurting him. Laughter. Words. ‘They hurt me a lot. I think all of them.’ Raped. That’s what he should say. Raped. But his fingers refuse to type the word. ‘They left me in the alley. I don’t know after how long. I think a long time. I got up at some point. That hurt. I don’t remember how I got home. I was in my shower. I don’t remember how I got there.’

“You’ve done very well telling me Matt.” No change in Olivia’s heartbeat. Not a lie. “Next I’ll need to ask some questions to clarify things. Do you want a break first.”

Matt shakes his head. He wants it over with. Surely it’s almost over with?

“Did you say anything while they were attacking you?”

He takes a deep breath. Another. ‘Lots.’ She’ll need details. Examples to prove it was anything but consensual. ‘I told them I’d kill them. I think I threatened them a lot. Swore at them. I asked them to stop.’ No. Begged. Not asked. He remembers that part. He remembers pain, and begging, and not being able to move. ‘I asked them to stop a lot.’

Lucky shifts on Matt’s legs. The dog’s bony elbow digs into one of his thighs. Matt concentrates on the dog’s heartbeat. His eyes hurt.

“Matt. The next part might be difficult.” Soft caution in Olivia’s voice. Her movements are slow and subtle. Not threatening. “We can try it tomorrow if you’d like. If it’s too much right now you can leave the room. You did really well today. You don’t need to do any more right now.”

His hand finds the keyboard. It shakes. ‘I want to try and finish this.’

A pause. “How about this? I’ll tell you what we’re going to do next. If you feel up to starting it, you can. Anytime you want to, you can leave. Does that sound OK?”

He nods.

“I’ll need to know what sex acts occurred, in which order, from which person. I understand that’s difficult. It’s OK if things are a bit muddled at first. And there might be things you can’t remember. That’s natural. Do you want to try and tell me? Or do you want to try again tomorrow?”

He blinks. Of course she needs to know that. Why wouldn’t she? But it still sends a sharp bolt of nausea through him. ‘I can try.’

“Any time you want to leave, you can go. You don’t need to explain. You can just get up and go. I won’t follow, and we can continue tomorrow. Does that sound all right?”

A nod. He takes a moment to stoke Lucky’s fur.

“Whenever you’re ready. If you’re ready.”

His hand returns to the keyboard. Which acts, in which order. What happened first? How did it start? Nothing but a big blank in answer to the question. They were laughing at him. Saying things like “Not so tough now.” He thinks one of them tugged his head up by his hair. Questions. “Does that hurt?” A kick to his ribs. “How about this?”

But that was when he was curled around his right arm with his boxers still on. How did it go from that to pain and hands and begging? How did his mind go from ‘it’s a beating. I know how to take a beating’ to incoherent pain and fear? There are fragments of sensations, moments, sounds. He doesn’t know how they fit together. He doesn’t know what came first.

His breathing comes too fast. Olivia says something. He doesn’t know what. Lucky licks his face.

Matt pushes Lucky gently to the floor, gets up, leaves the room.

He’s in the bathroom of the communal floor a few moments later, not sure how he got there. Lucky whines outside, paw scratching the bathroom door. His hand grips ceramic so hard the bruises scream. The side of the sink. He’s not sure why he’s standing here, half bent over the sink, until a wave of nausea surges through him. Everything goes fuzzy for a moment. It’s all he can do not to throw up every last mouthful of the Pad Thai he’d had for lunch.

He doesn’t remember what happened.

He thought he did. He thought he knew everything. Instead he has bits and pieces. Moments of pain that it hurts to even glance at. They’re all jumbled and confused. He’s not sure which part happened when. He’s not sure he wants to know, because to find out he has to look at them.

He was so close to finally finishing the statement. Everything was going OK. He was trying so hard to do things the right way. To take breaks like Foggy said. To not over-think things like Steve said. To face up to what happened like Fiona said.

But how can he finish the statement when he doesn’t know what happened?

Anger pours through him, hot and searing. His ears focus on the object on the wall in front of him. The way it bounces the sound waves at weird angles and distorts everything. Before he can process what he’s doing, his arm whips back, then forward.

A crunch. Tinkling as small pieces of mirror fall into the sink. A too loud crash as most of the rest follows. His arm whips back, forward. Back, forward until most of the mirror tinkles or crashes around his bare feet.

A click as the door unlocks. Change in airflow. Strong arms around him, pinning his arm to his side. His feet lift from the floor with as much ease as if he were a child. Movement. The air currents change around him as he’s carried from the room.

“Matt. It’s me. It’s Steve. You’re in Avengers tower. You’re safe. You hurt yourself again. I need to hang onto you until we get the shards out of your hand. OK?” Steve’s heartbeat. Steve’s voice.

Matt stays rigid in his grip, but he doesn’t fight back. Matt did this. He hurt himself again. Again. After he’d promised himself he was going to try not to. He can’t even do that. He can’t even remember enough to make a simple statement. He can’t do anything anymore.

“Wow.” Clint’s voice? “I’m guessing the xanax wore off.”

“Yeah.” Steve shifts. Moves them both to the wooden floor of the hallway. His arms stay tight across Matt’s chest, pinning his arm. It’s almost like a hug. “Close the door to the bathroom. Hey Jarvis. Can you make sure Matt can’t get back in there until we clean up the mess?”

A click. The lock of the bathroom door engaging? “Done Captain. I also feel the need to inform you that Mr Nelson is back in the tower, and on his way up to you.”

The thump of plastic against wood in front of him. Smell of antiseptic. First aid kit. Warmth kneels down next to it. Smell of hot plastic and books. Bucky’s heartbeat. “Piece of crap timing. Warn him what he’s about to walk into.”

“Right.” Sharp movement. Clint shakes himself? “I’m going to go not stare someplace else. Shower Nat with unappreciated kisses or something.” His footsteps move back to the communal lounge where Sam moves around, cooking food.

Karen’s voice. Tentative. “Has this happened a lot?”

“Has his moments. Don’t you pal?” A cold metal hand takes his. “At least you didn’t get any in your feet this time. Going to pick the shards out. They don’t look deep.”

The whoosh of the elevator doors. Foggy’s footsteps. Foggy’s hammering heartbeat.

Matt tenses in Steve’s arms, then forces himself to go limp. Maybe if he’s passive Foggy won’t get so upset. Maybe he won’t hurt him so much. There’s a vague feeling that he’s felt something like this before. His heart beats fast and scared.

He hurt himself. He wasn’t supposed to do that. Will Foggy leave for good this time?

Foggy’s footsteps stop beside Karen. For a long time he just stands there. Finally there’s skin against skin. Rubbing a hand across his face. His voice is strained. “Tell me you tried to stop him.”

“I think it was a sudden thing this time,” Steve’s voice says, soft. “He talked to Olivia. Then he punched the mirror in the bathroom. We’ve been watching him around cutlery and glasses, but we forgot about the mirror.”

Foggy sighs. The sound edges on anger. “You should’ve known that might set him off. You should’ve kept a better eye on him.”

“Foggy.” Skin against fabric. Karen clutches his arm. “They can’t exactly follow him into the bathroom.”

“Look.” Steve’s voice rumbles through him. “This was a mistake that we’ll learn from. His apartment is fully safety proofed and kitted out with full supervision from Jarvis. Tony, Clint, and Nat are due to do the same to the communal floor tomorrow. We’ll also take the mirror out of Sam’s and mine and Bucky’s apartments so he can visit. We’ll take it into consideration when we safety proof the other floors.”

“I get that you’re upset.” Bucky removes another shard from Matt’s hand. “But he’s done really good today. He’s communicating. He’s asking for help. He’s trying. And all these behaviours are fucking unhealthy, but they’re also coping mechanisms. It’s not going to be as easy as asking him to stop.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Foggy sounds so tired. “Maurice already gave me that talk. We need to help him learn new coping mechanisms, and it’s going to be difficult for him, and it might take a while. It’s just frustrating.” Footsteps moving. Fabric shifting as Foggy leans down. A hand on his head with Foggy’s heartbeat. “I hate seeing you hurt Murdock.”

Foggy isn’t mad? Frustrated maybe. Upset. But not mad.

Wet in Foggy’s voice. “I’m going for another walk. I’m not leaving Matt. I just need some space. I’ll be in the tower, but you might not see me for a while. Or hear me, or whatever. You can message me on your computer if you really want to talk. It might take me some time to answer so don’t panic about that. All this worrying about you isn’t good for either of us. I know that now. So I need to try and learn to not worry so much. OK?”

Silence. Matt stays limp, head slumped forward.

“OK,” Foggy repeats, quieter. “Promise me you’ve got him. Promise me you care about stopping him getting hurt. Because I’m really trying to believe that, but you haven’t had the best track record lately.”

Stinging on his hand as Bucky cleans it. Matt doesn’t flinch. “He’s had a bad patch. It’s probably a combination of things. But part of it is, he really doesn’t like it when he thinks you’re mad at him. We care about him Foggy. We’re doing our best to keep him safe, and help him find some different ways to cope.”

“We’ve got him Foggy,” Steve’s voice rumbles through him. “Go take a walk. Get some space. Me and Buck can watch him tonight and tomorrow. That’ll give you time to work through things before your mother comes.”

“OK,” Foggy says again. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself that it is OK. “I’m not mad Matty. Can you remind him of that? In case he’s out of it.”

Silence. Maybe a nod from someone? Foggy’s footsteps turn and leave.


	23. Chapter 23

“Come on pal. Eat. You usually ain’t this stubborn about it.” Bucky sits next to Matt on the large couch, holding a cup of his soup in one hand.

Matt shakes his head. Rubs his knuckles over the fleece blanket. Stops when it makes the gauze scratch his hand. No stitches this time. Just a lot of small raw wounds. He got lucky.

It’s late. Everyone has already eaten except Bruce who is sitting on one of the armchairs, steadily making his way through his fourth serving of pork and sweet potato fries. His heart is slow and tired. Tony’s heartbeat beats beside him. On the arm of the chair? Every now and then there’s movement and rustling of fabric like Tony pokes Bruce awake.

“Don’t make me break out the air-plane noises. Because I’ll do that if I have to. Ask Steve.”

Steve’s voice from the other end of the couch. “He’s serious. He’ll do it.”

Matt shakes his head again, pushes Lucky’s muzzle away when it nudges him.

Steve’s voice is softer this time. “Foggy asked me to send updates. What is he going to think if I have to tell him you’re not even trying to eat anything? How about you take a mouthful? Then we can at least say you tried.”

Stupid evil Steve trying to guilt him into things. Matt curls up, pressing his left hand over his left ear, and his right into the back of the couch. The guilt stings, even if it’s nothing compared to the horrible feeling of failure when Olivia had come to him while he was under the weighted blanket on the couch, still limp and not wanting to move. Steve had carried him there after the man had tried to get him to stand and he’d stayed boneless.

Olivia said he’d done really well, but she wasn’t sure if getting the rest of the statement was worth the pain it was causing him. She reminded him that the police had the video. That he’d tried to give a statement so no one could accuse him of not cooperating. She wants him to think carefully about whether he wants to continue or not.

“OK,” Bucky says. Plastic against wood as the soup is set on the coffee table. “Let’s forget the soup for now. How about you use your aids and tell me what’s bothering you?”

Matt unhooks the satchel from around his shoulder, pushes it off the side of the couch.

Karen’s heartbeat speeds up from between Steve and Bucky. They’d all been talking before this. Some conversation about something that Matt couldn’t keep track of. Everyone’s here except Pepper who wanted to catch up on some work before bed.

That should mean something. He should control himself better. But there’s that clawing at his chest. He can’t quite breathe. He hurt himself and he was trying so hard not to. He can’t make a statement, and he can’t face up to what happened, because he doesn’t remember what happened. There are pieces in his head that will tell him some, but he doesn’t want to look at them. They hurt to think about. He doesn’t want to think about it. But he should. But he doesn’t want to.

“Matty.” Bucky sighs. “I’m trying to help you here pal. You’re anxious, right? What number are we on?”

Matt presses his hand against his ear again.

“Matt.” Steve’s voice. “If you tell us what you’re worrying about, maybe we can fix it.”

Matt shakes his head. Lucky manages to scramble up onto the couch and lick his face. Gross. He reluctantly strokes his head. The heartbeat under his fingers helps.

“We could go for a walk down the gym level,” Bucky says. “Or you could get back under the weighted blanket. Or you could go hide in your bed. Any one of those appeal?”

Matt shakes his head, rests his forehead on the side of Lucky’s head, digs his fingers into the soft fur on his neck.

“Want to stay as you are then?” Steve asks. “We could watch a movie. If you want something, you can ask.”

Lucky’s heartbeat helps the clawing ease, but it’s still there. There’s a steady beat going through his head. One that reminds him of all the things he’s failed at lately. He can’t do anything. He can’t do _anything_.

Gritting his teeth, he slams his fist into the couch cushion.

“You want to hit?” Sliding of wood against wood as Bucky opens a drawer on the coffee table. Shifting of flesh and strange metal over leather. Then the smack of leather against leather. “I’ve got the mitts on. Want to give me a jab?”

Matt springs up to avoid Lucky, and gives him a solid punch. Another one, then another. They’re on their feet out in the hallway. Matt’s not sure when that happened. A conversation back in the communal lounge. About the giant mice he thinks. They’d looked a lot scarier than they actually were. Hulk had wanted to take them home as pets, and had been disappointed when the growth tech had failed after a few hours and most of them had scurried off. They’d eventually found the scientists behind it hidden in a remote location in the desert. Not evil people. Just misguided people high on science.

No one comments when Matt stumbles his way back to the couch with Bucky’s help, pats the cushion to get Lucky to jump up, then pulls the dog close to his chest.

Bucky changes the bandage on his knuckles then they watch Frozen. He thinks Foggy would like it. There’s a lot of singing. He curls up on his left side against the pillows. Lucky curls up against him, and it’s OK. For a while things are OK. Karen pauses the movie so she can describe to him Rapunzel and Finn from Tangled walking into the castle among the other guests. Things are OK.

Until they’re not. And he’s sitting up, rubbing his chest to try and stop his heart beating so fast. He tries to breathe slow, but each breath disappears out of his lungs so fast he can’t catch it. He can’t even breathe right.

He can’t do anything right.

“Matty. Gonna touch your shoulder. OK?” Bucky whispers.

It takes a while for Matt to remember to nod.

The touch is cold. No heartbeat. It tugs at him gently.

He allows himself to be pulled into Bucky’s side. That heartbeat thumps slowly through him. Something plastic is placed on his lap. The small computer.

Bucky’s voice stays at a low whisper. “Tell me what’s going through that head of yours. Promise pal. It’ll stay between us.”

Matt blinks a few times before his fingers find the keyboard. What can he say? There’s so much swirling through his head. He can’t see how Bucky could help with any of it. But maybe he can. Maybe he can help.

He doesn’t want to tell him about Olivia, about how he doesn’t remember. That’s too personal. But maybe there’s something. ‘I wasn’t supposed to hurt myself. Foggy said.’

“Pal,” Bucky leans close and whispers so low that no one without super-senses could hear him. “Foggy ain’t mad. I promise. Look. This whole hurting yourself thing is going to be hard to kick. You need to go easier on yourself. As long as you’re trying then no one can blame you. We’ll try some things. Sam knows some methods that might help. Want to try one now?”

Matt nods. Then his fingers twitch and he types something else. Something that sounds pathetic in his head, but cuts to the heart of what all this ‘can’t do anything’ is about. Not good enough. Pathetic. Can’t do anything right.

‘I’m bad.’

Bucky’s breath catches. Then the cold arm around his back is joined by a warm one and he’s being pulled gently towards Bucky’s chest. Slow enough and tentative enough that he could back out at any moment. He doesn’t back out.

“You’re not bad,” Bucky mouths more than whispers into his ear. “Bad things happened to you, and now you’ve got some issues you need to work through. That doesn’t make you bad. You’re good. OK. I promise you, you’re good.”

***

Matt sits in his corner of the couch and tears the newspaper into neat strips.

Sam somehow knew the reasons Matt hurts himself. Maybe he’d talked to Foggy. He’d explained to Foggy about the too much tension and how hurting himself gets rid of it. He can’t remember telling him he also hurt himself to get rid of thoughts he didn’t want in his head, but Foggy does know he thinks too much sometimes, Steve and Bucky seem to as well.

Sam says he’s using self harm as an emotional release valve. He needs to learn healthier ways to release tension and work through his emotions. He says he’s doing a good job by using exercise and starting to talk through his emotions. His heart beat truth when he told Matt he was doing a good job. He says that the unwanted thoughts will start to go as he works through his PTSD, and talking about them will help too.

In the meantime there are hundreds of different ways to distract himself when he’s feeling like this. Sam says exercise and communicating will be the most important, but he might as well try out some other methods to see if they help too.

So he’s ripping up a newspaper.

At first he’d started tense. He’d ripped and torn the first couple of sheets. The tearing sound is nice. The feeling of breaking something holds the same satisfaction as dragging a knife across his skin. It’s not quite as potent. He’d need pain for that. But it’s surprisingly similar. He’d gone back over those first couple of sheets, tearing them again and again in a haphazard way until they were reduced to pieces so small he couldn’t tear them any further.

Now he’s settled into a rhythm. His shoulders are loose. Not quite relaxed, but almost. There’s something comforting in the precision of tearing one even strip, then another, then another. The long riiip of paper isn’t a pleasant sound. It borders on painful. It reminds him of destruction. Of punching someone again and again until their face splits and swells and stinks of blood.

Each even strip goes in the box with the dinosaurs. He hasn’t analysed what he wants to do with them, but he knows he wants to keep them.

Maybe he can create something with his destruction. There’s something poetic about that.

“Come on pal. Time for bed.”

Matt pauses partway through putting a strip of newspaper in the box. He frowns in Bucky’s direction.

“Puppy dog eyes won’t work on me. I grew up with Stevie.” A smile in Bucky’s voice. “I know you’re tired. And we need to be up bright and early tomorrow. We’re going for a run, remember.”

He remembers. A run around the gym with Bucky. Then a shower or a bath in one of those relaxing tubs. Up to the communal lounge to have breakfast with Steve, Sam, and whoever else is awake. Then he can choose whether to see Olivia or hang out in the gym while the team train. Tony’s going to show him and Clint the new jungle gym. And just before lunch he and Bucky are going down to the cafeteria floor so he can start getting used to being around people.

He pouts anyway. He doesn’t want to stop.

Bucky lets out a whine. “Matty. Don’t do that. Don’t do that face.”

Steve chuckles behind him. He, Steve, Bucky, and Karen are the only ones left in the communal lounge. “I thought you said puppy dog eyes didn’t work on you?”

“Shut up Steve.” The cushion moves as Bucky shifts on the couch. “Look pal. You put the newspaper you want in the box. I promise it’ll be there in the morning. You can go back to it after breakfast. Deal?”

Matt slumps his shoulders.

Bucky makes a frustrated sound. “Five more minutes. Got it? Only five.”

Matt smiles at him, then rips another strip of newspaper.

“You guys go ahead,” Karen’s voice says from by the coffee table. “I’ll walk up with him.”

Bucky’s heart beats worry. “You sure?”

“Matt?” The couch shifts as Steve gets up. “What number are you on?”

One or two. He raises two fingers just in case. Then goes back to ripping strips of newspaper.

“He should be OK.” Steve’s footsteps move around the back of the couch. “It’s five minutes Buck. If anything goes wrong we’re an elevator ride away.”

Bucky sighs, but the couch shifts as he gets to his feet as well. “Four minutes. Got that brat? No longer.”

Matt nods, not stopping from ripping the next strip of paper. The monotony of the task is soothing.

Steve and Bucky’s footsteps disappear into the elevator, Bucky’s uneven footsteps sounding hesitant.

The couch cushion jumps as Karen flops down on Foggy’s spot.

Quiet for a beat, broken by the smooth riiip of paper. There’s a decent sized pile in the dinosaur box.

Karen’s heart flutters with nerves, but her voice is strong. “After I found out who you were, I never had the chance to thank you for saving me. For taking down Fisk. For everything. I just.” Her voice cracks before she forces it smooth again. “I really need to thank you Matt.”

Matt shrugs a shoulder, puts another strip in the box.

“And I want you to know that I’m not angry you kept your identity a secret.” She takes a deep breath. “I have secrets that I haven’t told you. Secrets I’m not sure I will ever tell you. So I just want you to know that we’re OK Matt, you and me. You’re my friend. I care about you. None of that has changed. Me and Jessica are doing a lot of work, so I might not always be around, but if you ever want to talk to me, my details are on your computer. I’m a message away. OK?”

He nods.

“Can I…” wet in her voice. The strength in her words fades. “I really want to hug you right now.”

Pushing aside the newspaper, he shifts forward and holds out his arm. Lucky’s heartbeat moves out of the slow rhythm of sleep at his side, jostled by the movement.

She smells like vanilla. She clutches more than hugs, as if she wants to hold onto him forever. Her head leans against his neck, and her hands grip the back of his hoodie. Her breath comes wet and upset. “We care about you. OK. You’re worth keeping around.”

***

_The kicks are a storm. So fast and so many that he can barely pick out each point of impact. They all blur into one relentless force that rocks into him without pause. His head pounds, and when a piece of that storm collides with the side of his skull, it screams again._

_But this is fine. He’s been in worse situations before. His mask is on. His armour is intact. All he needs to do is get up. Surprise them. Get the upper hand again. His screaming head makes his movements sluggish. He tries to roll to the side, but those feet kick him back into the circle. He pushes himself to his elbows. Something metal pounds hard against his back, making his head collide with the floor. The baseball bat. Swearing. Insults. Nothing he hasn’t heard before._

_But this is fine. It’s fine. His head is woozy. Nothing he can’t shake off if he gets free for a second. He just needs to get up then this fight will be his. He just needs to get up. That’s all he needs to do. He just needs to get up._

The stink of fear sweat. Panting at sips of air that feel too hot in his lungs. Shaking all over. Smooth gripped in his hand.

“Matt. You’re OK.” A soft voice.

He’s sitting down. That’s bad. He shouldn’t be down. They won’t let him up again. Shoving off whatever’s lying on his legs, he searches for ground that doesn’t feel so soft. One of his feet falls down. A sudden jerk that makes freezing shock pool in his stomach. He didn’t know there was a down to fall to.

“Matt? Are you awake?” That soft voice again. He’s heard it before. “You’re fine Matt. It’s Steve. You’re in Avengers tower. In your bedroom. You just had a nightmare. I’m going to send Lucky over to you.”

Familiar clicking noises. Something cold and wet gently touches his hand as he’s trying to figure out how to put his other foot on the solid floor beside the one already there. The cold wet makes him flinch away, but it comes again, gentle. A familiar smell. Lavender and dog. The cold wet has a heartbeat. It’s attached to warm that doesn’t move.

Matt keeps his hand still and the cold wet moves gently until there’s smooth fur under his fingers. His hand moves instinctively, tracing the smooth fur up to a bumpy skull, fluffy ears, soft fur around its neck. It’s jarring. So far removed from kicking, can’t get up, alleyway. It’s soft, warm, safe, smells like lavender, gross wet licking. There’s a name. He can’t quite find it.

“Breathe Matt. Nice and slow. In then out.” The soft voice makes exaggerated slow breaths.

He traces the fur under his fingers. Tries to push the panic and the ‘can’t get up’ to the side long enough to find the name. One rough eye. The other normal. It’s like dragging the thoughts out from under a mountain of molasses. Hit by a car. Flopped to the floor and wanted a tummy rub. Nudges. Played with a tug toy. Rolled in something nasty.

Lucky. That’s it. Lucky.

Matt’s second foot finds the solid floor. He stands up, because the ‘can’t get up’ keeps playing in his head, even with Lucky here. He’s somewhere. Lucky is in the tower. That’s where he lives. So Matt is in the tower?

The ‘can’t get up’ screams at him. Makes him stand as tall as he can. There’s another warm in the room, but it’s crouched down almost as low as Lucky. So that’s OK. His heart beats too fast. His mind wants to skitter off into panic.

This scared has happened before, right? And Lucky is here. Lucky is safe, warm, lives in the tower. The tower is voices and heartbeats he knows, his spot on the couch, chocolate cookies, Bucky, Steve, Foggy, Lucky. Safe. He needs to work out where he is exactly. That’s what he does isn’t it? That will make the kicking, jeering, ‘can’t get up’ not seem so loud.

“Good Matt. Keep breathing. Do you know where you are?”

The voice is soft. One he knows. His ears try to focus in on the heartbeat, but there’s too much everything around to zero in on something like that, too much clutter in his head. Hesitantly he reaches out instead. If he touches it he’ll be able to feel. How far away is it? He can’t quite tell.

The warm gets taller.

Panic bursts through him. He jerks back. Sharp impact that jolts through his tender ribs. Rocking of wood against wood. Heavy. Loud.

“Sorry Matt.” The warm comes from lower. “I’ll stay down, OK? It’s safe. I promise. It’s Steve. You’re in Avengers tower. In your bedroom. You had a nightmare. Breathe nice and slow and things will start making sense again.”

Some of the words have meaning this time. ‘Safe’ makes sense. ‘Steve’ almost makes sense. He knows it’s something important. ‘Tower’ makes sense. That’s the same as safe. ‘Breathe.’ That’s something he should do.

He focuses on breathing. It’s easier when a warm weight with Lucky’s heartbeat presses against his legs. His fingers touch the wood behind him that almost fell over. It’s smooth wood surface, and that block stays in his mind and doesn’t tell him what it’s called.

A large object next to his legs. He has to lean a little to touch it, and that’s physically painful. He needs to stay upright. But it’s worth it, because the moment he rubs the smooth fabric between his fingers he has a name. Duvet, on his bed, in his bedroom. Lucky’s here. No smell of exposed bricks. Not his apartment. The tower. So his apartment in the tower.

Panic eases its grip on his chest. Almost there. Still a piece missing. What is Steve? Steve is. Steve is sharp soap. Guilting him into eating. Explaining things so patiently. Fleece lined jacket. Soft voice. He’s ‘If there’s anything you want to tell me, or anything I can do, you just need to ask.’

Done. There’s still that panicky floaty feeling like the things around him might disappear at any moment to be replaced by kicking boots and alleyway, but he knows where he is. With a handful of duvet clutched tight, he reminds himself Avengers tower, Lucky, Steve, safe, again and again.

***

“Matt? Why don’t you come sit down?” Steve’s voice asks from the couch.

Matt shakes his head, paces. He’s not anxious. Not like he’s been before. Not really panicked either, but he can’t bring himself to sit. Every time he does he keeps imagining phantom hands coming out of nowhere and holding him down, then springs up again. All it takes is one time. He goes to the ground once he might not be able to get up again.

Lucky’s given up following him on his pacing from kitchen area, past his bedroom door, past the couch, to Foggy’s bedroom door and back. The dog curls up near the couch, heart slow in sleep. A movie plays near the couch. Tangled. One of his favourites.

Foggy’s bedroom door opens. Foggy’s footsteps. Foggy’s voice groggy with sleep. “How long?”

“Nearly three hours. Nightmare. He won’t tell me about it, and he doesn’t want to sit or lie down.” Fabric against leather. Steve shifting on the couch. “Sorry we woke you.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Foggy’s footsteps walk to the couch. Matt doesn’t stop pacing. “You should go to bed. I’ll take over.”

“Foggy…”

“I’ve got a day off remember?” A smile in Foggy’s voice. It sounds strained. “You and Bucky aren’t so lucky. Look. It’s two am. I’ve got three hours until it’s Bucky’s turn. I’ll sleep then and enjoy my day off by sleeping until noon. And who knows? Maybe he’ll speak to me.”

Matt listens half heartedly as Steve protests a few times, then goes to sleep on the pull out bed they’d set up in the office. There’s a reason why Foggy’s good at being a lawyer.

“OK Murdock,” Foggy says once Steve’s gone. “Just you and me buddy.”

Matt can’t explain what’s wrong. Not in his words, which refuse to work at all. Not with the computer which is still tainted by the things he said and couldn’t say to Olivia. Not with the PECS book. Not with nods or shakes of his head. This is too personal. Talking about it feels like cutting himself open. He’s cut himself open in front of Foggy before. But this new Foggy gets upset so much. He has to be careful. And Matt’s talked so much about his feelings lately. He doesn’t want to do that anymore. Not now when things are so raw.

So he paces, and paces, and paces. Foggy persuades him to sit. He tries it, then springs up, again, again, again. If he stays down, he might not get up again.

It must be at least an hour before he’s sitting, coiled tight as a spring on the couch. Foggy’s arms firm around him. Foggy’s voice in his ear telling him it’s OK. He has him. He’s not going to let anything bad happen. He promises.

***

The arm he’s clutching tells him Bucky in solid steady beats of his heart.

That’s good, but his head is all jumbled with pain and ‘have to curl up and hide.’ There was a different feeling before. One that told him to get up, stay up, don’t you dare get knocked down. Murdock’s always get back up, but there was a storm of feet and a baseball bat that wouldn’t let him. Then there were hands. Then there was pain. He couldn’t get back up, so he stopped trying. And that doesn’t make sense because Murdock’s always get back up.

It takes too long to figure out from Bucky’s words, the soft underneath him, the smells of rubber and sweat, Steve’s voice asking someone to ‘show me that move again?’

Gym. That’s it. The gym. The team are training, going over a simulation they’ve apparently already tried while Matt was asleep. Figuring out the good and bad points. How they can improve. Practising individual manoeuvres.

He’d managed a little more sleep with Foggy’s arms around him, only to wake again and again from dreams of hands and ‘can’t get up.’ Then reading the book with that sentence he needs to remember: ‘I was raped and it’s OK to be upset about it.’ Then running around the gym with Bucky. Sitting for large portions of it while he got his breath back. Swallowing his pills. The antibiotics may be finished, but with the anti-nausea, the HIV preventative meds, and now the Zoloft, it still feel like a lot. A couple of spoons of oatmeal before he’d pushed it away despite Steve’s best guilt trips. Then a nap on the gym level, and nightmares. So many nightmares.

“You wanna try and get some more sleep?” Bucky asks once his breathing is slower and he knows where he is.

Matt shakes his head violently.

Hesitation in Bucky’s voice. “You can talk about them, you know? To anyone you want. It helps.”

Another shake.

***

Matt stretches out carefully in the Nerf gun room. Just him and Lucky here.

The Avengers train in the main gym area. They’ve moved from analysing their simulation to improving weak areas. Pepper’s come to practise hand on hand with Clint. Bruce with a recovering Natasha. Tony and Bucky snark more than fight. Sam talks Steve through some moves he hasn’t learnt before.

There’s something comfortable about the way they all sound together. It eases some of the panic left from the nightmares.

The sprain on his hip still bothers him if he moves at too sharp an angle. Twisting is a bad idea. But the rest of his lower body seems functional at least. His ribs are less a constant blaze of pain than sharp stabs when he does something they don’t like. His right arm is still useless, covered with sling, plaster, and finger splints, but his left arm is functional despite all its bruises and cuts.

Lucky’s paws pad up to him, and something that smells like drool and hemp is dropped by his feet. Lucky’s tug toy.

Smiling, Matt picks it up and tosses it across the room.

Lucky’s claws slip slide against the wooden floor in his enthusiasm. Matt tilts his head, listening as the thump of claws against wood turns hollow as the dog runs up a ramp. A huff as Lucky lands on the wooden floor. Panting around an object as he carries the rope back to Matt.

Matt squats down to meet him, laughing. The sound exits his mouth as choked breathy exhales as if his throat can’t quite remember how this laughing thing goes. “G-g-g-good.” The word comes out raspy, choked, strangled, but Lucky doesn’t seem to mind.

Movement as the dog’s tail wags as the praise.

“Good,” Matt tells him again, stroking the smooth fur on his head. “You’re a good par-par-park.” He shakes his head. Takes a breath. Tries again. It takes him several attempts to sound out each word, then several more to fit them into a sentence that doesn’t start and stop too much. As it is, the final sentence still stutters a little, but Lucky’s tail says he likes it all the same. “You’re a good par-parkour dog.”

And maybe he’s useless. Maybe he can’t do anything right. But Lucky doesn’t mind that his voice sounds too raw, or that he stutters. He doesn’t care about the video, or what happened that night. He doesn’t care that Matt can’t make a statement, or that Matt can’t stop hurting himself even when he tries to do things right.

All Lucky wants is praise, strokes, to play fetch and have the occasional tummy rub. Matt can do that.

So Matt balances on one of the metal railings. His fluffy socks decrease his grip, giving it an extra layer of challenge. He dumps his bag on one of the ramps, and hops an easy circuit from metal railing, to ramp, to another railing, then back. The angles require good balance, but the distance is short enough that he doesn’t need to roll or climb. A few circuits in he walks it back and forth, sipping at his water bottle while trying not to spill it, and talking to Lucky.

The talking is buried in long silences that Lucky doesn’t seem to mind either. Matt tells Lucky about Karen. About how she cares about him. The words come out tasting foreign and fragile, and he repeats them a few times because there are so many questions, that part of him hopes if he repeats the words enough times the answers will come. They don’t.

So he tells Lucky about Foggy instead, but that holds more questions.

“Bucky says Foggy isn’t angry.” The topic is heavy and confusing. So he half sits on the railing, swinging a leg back and forth as he tries to unpick it. “I don’t like angry. It’s muscles too tense. Heart too fast. A smell maybe? Like a charge in the air. Being surrounded by static electricity. Waiting for an attack you’re not prepared for. The moments before Stick breaks a finger because you were too slow and lazy and you need incentive to not be such a screw up. It feels like that.”

Lucky continues making chewing noises. Chewing a paw? He shows no judgement. That’s good.

“But there are those things a lot lately around Foggy. So Foggy is mad. But Foggy isn’t mad at me? I think that’s what they said.” Matt downs the rest of the water bottle, tosses it on top of the satchel. “I think it was. I think it was Foggy’s mad at the situation. That doesn’t make sense. Does it? I caused the situation. So if he’s mad at the situation, he should be mad at me.”

Lucky helpfully goes from chewing his paw to licking his paw.

It still doesn’t make sense but something about saying it out loud to another living creature eases some of the tension in his chest. Even if said creature has no clue what he’s saying. “Want to play fetch?”

Sudden movement as Lucky jumps to his feet. Scrambling of paws against wood as he finds the tug toy.

Hooking his knees around the railing, he slowly leans backward so he can take the tug toy from Lucky’s mouth. It’s covered in drool. Gross. Lucky takes advantage of his vulnerable position to lick his cheek before he can hook a couple fingers over the railing and lever himself upright. Double gross.

***

Matt clutches Bucky’s elbow tight.

He has a mission. One that’s small and pathetic, but it is his mission. Every day he has to go to the cafeteria floor, ask for the hot drinks and desserts waiting for him, then take them up so the others can have them with their lunch. Today he needs to pick up a bag of cookies Sam baked earlier (which Matt thinks is cheating since they were up in the communal lounge to begin with), a list of hot drinks, plus a white chocolate brownie and a caramel macchiato for Claire.

She’d decided to stay after scanning, poking, prodding, and finally taking off the splints on his fingers. Matt would be happy if he didn’t suspect she was only hanging around to lecture him some more about the weight he’d lost. Over twenty pounds in only a couple of weeks.

Today Bucky will lead him to the little coffee bar. There are other places that serve things like burgers, pizza, and healthier options on the cafeteria floor, but the small coffee bar is the one they’ll use for now. They’ll go to the coffee bar. Matt will hand the girl behind the counter the list. Her name is Stacy. Or Bucky can give her the list this time. They’ll get their order and take it upstairs.

The headphones hang loose around Matt’s neck, because he needs to try not to use them if he can manage it.

Even before the elevator doors whoosh open he’s gritting his teeth against the noise. People. Talking. Heartbeats. So many sounds. Then the doors open and there’s smells as well. Perfume. Sweat. Spices. Meat. Coffee. Everything. It’s everything. Lucky presses heavy against his legs.

“You OK pal?” Bucky’s voice asks. Heartbeat a little too fast. “You need your headphones?”

Matt forces himself to shakes his head. No. No. He can manage this. It’s early for lunch. There aren’t that many people. He’s dealt with worse without even thinking about it.

He’s getting coffee and cookies. He doesn’t even need to leave the building. He can do this.

They step off the elevator onto tiled floor. He takes a deep breath. Focuses on Bucky’s heartbeat pulsing under his fingers. Wide open space around him. That and the tiled floor echoes the sound-waves a little oddly. Thin walls further into the floor to his right and left. Cooking sounds behind them. A woman’s heartbeat a bit ahead of them in the middle of the floor. Some kind of low structure around her. A bar maybe. Some structures in front. Metal. Table and chairs he guesses. At least a dozen tables. A long way behind on the back of the floor are more structures. People gathered around them. Scraping of chair legs. Lots of tables and chairs. Back there seems to be where most people sit.

“The Japanese kiosk is my favourite,” Bucky says. “Great miso soup. But for now we’re going to the bar straight ahead. About twenty feet. Let’s go while there’s no queue.”

Bucky steps forward, and Matt’s legs just lock in place.

Bucky halts in place at the resistance. “Hey.” His voice is lowered. His body steps between Matt and the room, and it’s better that way. A little easier to breathe. “Headphones?”

Matt shakes his head, breath coming in and out of his chest in jagged motions. Panic pricks at his limbs, turning them numb. This time he refuses, not because he wants to do this well, but because he doesn’t want to be blind in this new place with all these people he can hear that he doesn’t know.

“Breathe Matt. You’re fine. It’s twenty feet. Can you make it? Me and Lucky will be with you the whole way.” Bucky’s words are calm. Patient.

Matt takes a step towards Bucky. And no. He freezes, panic turning the sound around him sharp and painful. It feels like he’s stepping into some vast ocean of chaos. There are voices out there. People. They’re not talking about him as far as he can tell. They’re saying things like “I have to go down to R and D. Those geeks better not aim a freeze gun at me again.” And “I’m telling you Bruce Banner is so sweet. He got a little green around the edges once on our floor and he’s still bringing apology donuts.”

Nothing about him. But maybe if he walks into the floor someone will pass by and see him. They’ll talk about him. What if he forgets where the elevator is and he can’t get back to it? What if a group of people stops in front of the elevator while he’s away from it and he can’t get back without walking through them? What if he steps out into the room and the noises and smells swallow him whole and won’t let him go? What if he has a panic attack and people see?

“OK Matt. No problem. We’ll stay right here this time.” Movement. Bucky waves?

A few minutes of Lucky’s weight against his legs, Bucky telling him to breathe, then there’s a whirring and the heartbeat that was behind the bar stops several feet from them. Female? The warmth of her body comes from low down. That with the constant loud whirring. In a electronic wheelchair?

“Hey doll,” Bucky drawls. “Looking as gorgeous as usual.”

“Shush you old flirt. Else I’ll set my happily married husband on you. What’ll it be?” She sounds older. Seventies maybe?

Movement as Bucky turns. Matt realises for the first time that he’s wedged himself between Bucky and the elevator, hiding. No change in Bucky’s heart-rate. So either he knew Matt had ducked behind his back, or he doesn’t care.

“Just getting the list for Stacy pal.” Bucky’s cold hand fiddles with Matt’s hoodie pocket. Crinkling of paper as the list is pulled out. Giving it to Stacy was supposed to be Matt’s job.

“Coming right up.” The whirring moves away. “Give me a minute. My pins aren’t what they used to be.”

Someone walks by. Not close. Not heading in their direction. Footsteps clicking towards the tables at the back of the floor. They barely pass close enough to catch their heartbeat. Did they see? Were they looking at him?

Matt shakes. Somehow his hand’s moved from Bucky’s elbow to clutch a handful of the back of his t-shirt instead. He’s close enough behind Bucky that no one should be able to see him. Bucky’s a little taller and a lot wider. He hopes no one can see him.

Stacy whirs her way back. She smells like coffee and cookies. “Am I ignoring this one?”

“Yeah. Yeah Stace. We’ll do introductions later.” Scraping of cardboard. Crinkling of a paper bag. “As always it’s been a genuine pleasure my dear. When are you going to let me take you out? Wine and dine you like a lovely lady like you deserves?”

“Oh Barnes,” she says with a smile in her voice. “Even if I thought you could compete with my darling Archie, I don’t date older men.” Whirring of the wheelchair as she moves away.

A whoosh as the elevator doors open. They step inside. Relief as the doors close again.

“Deep breaths, OK Matty.” Bucky takes a deep breath as if to demonstrate and Matt realises he’s still hiding behind his back. Matt forces himself to let go of the handful of t-shirt. “We got the cookies. We got the coffee and everything else on the list, including the stuff for Claire. You met Stacy. It’s all good.”

Matt shakes his head, backs away. It’s not good. Horror floods through him as the panic leaves enough room in his head to think about what happened. He couldn’t even walk twenty feet to the coffee bar. He cowered behind Bucky, hiding from an older woman in a wheelchair who just wanted to give them cookies.

He can’t do anything! One of the elevator walls is right in front of him. Whipping back his head, he slams his skull into it. It hurts. That’s good. He deserves hurt.

“Whoa. Matty. Don’t do that.” Cardboard against metal as Bucky sets the drinks and snacks down. “Don’t you fucking eat that Lucky. Hey Matt. Stop. OK. Stop.”

He slams his forehead into the wall, softer than the first time, but not by much. He needs to do better, but everything he tries he fails at. He needs to learn to do better.

A warm hand places itself between his forehead and the wall. “You want to go hit for a while? I’ve got mitts on the communal floor and the gym.”

There’s a burning in his chest and throat. Like a sob that can’t wrench its way free. Why can’t he do any of this? Why is every last thing so fucking impossible? Clenching a fist he grinds it into his skull.

“Matt.” Suddenly the tone of Bucky’s voice changes from worried to questioning. “Hey Matt? Can you do me a favour? Could you take your glasses off? I know you wanted to wear them to the cafeteria floor, but they kind of make me nervous. Some of the people who hurt me liked to wear masks and dark glasses to divorce themselves from what they were doing. So I’d appreciate it if you could put them away now you don’t need them.”

Taking a deep breath, Matt forces himself to stop hurting his head to unhook the glasses from his face. Putting them away in the pocket of his satchel requires a whole series of movements that his fingers can’t remember how to do. It takes a lot more time and concentration than it should.

“There. You feel better?” Somehow Bucky’s moved so his warmth is between Matt and the wall.

He does feel better. His breath comes easier. He frowns at Bucky.

“Yeah.” A smile in Bucky’s voice. “I distracted you. Who do you think Steve learnt all that manipulation from? I was the one that had to convince that stubborn ass to let me take care of him growing up. I’m more than a little rusty at it though. But the glasses thing was real. I didn’t lie about that. It is a lot easier to talk to you without them.”

Lucky’s heartbeat presses against his legs. The floor isn’t moving. Outside the doors comes idle chatter from Claire, Foggy, and the Avengers. Sounds like they’re eating.

“You want to use your aids to tell me what’s bothering you?”

The ‘can’t do anything’ thoughts come back. They stab. Matt screws up his face, shakes his head.

“OK.” No change in Bucky’s heart-rate. No annoyance in his voice. “That’s fine. If you change your mind I’ll listen. For now take a deep breath. In and out. It’s over. You did good.”

Matt shakes his head violently.

Bucky’s heart-rate skips. Surprise. “You don’t think you did good?”

Matt turns his face towards the floor, shakes his head. He did terrible. He didn’t do anything right. He couldn’t even make one step into the room. He froze. He hid behind Bucky like a scared little kid. He didn’t give Stacy the list. It’s such a fucking simple task, and he couldn’t do any of it. What the fuck is wrong with him?

“Look. You’ll get there. You’ve got some problems. Strangers I’m guessing, and new places too maybe? Today was about establishing where our baseline is. You’ve been to court, but that’s all about ignoring everything for you, so we needed to see where you were when public places were more of a choice. Now we know, we know what we have to work with. And you did good. You managed to keep your headphones off. You stepped out of the elevator. You tried to take a step into the room. You did good.”

Matt shakes his head again.

***

Matt pushes the plate away, and when they offer him soup instead he shakes his head.

“I don’t know what you think you’re getting out of this hunger strike.” Anger in Claire’s words. No anger smell though. Claire’s a lot better at sounding angry that she is feeling it, Matt thinks. “But whatever it is isn’t worth it. You’ve lost at least twenty pounds. Probably more. You didn’t have much fat to begin with, which means you’re burning through muscle right now. All that precious hard earned muscle is disappearing. What are you going to do when you want to do one of your stupid back flips and all your core muscles are shrunk?”

Matt sets his forearm on the table, and his head on top of it. He’s still feeling tired from his round of punching with Bucky. He’s tired a lot lately.

Scraping as Claire shifts in the chair beside him. “I don’t get it Matt. Do you want that cast on for an extra few weeks? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you keep doing this. Your body needs more energy to heal, not less.”

Foggy’s footsteps round the table. Matt tenses as they near. Foggy’s heartbeat is a little too fast, and this is an argument that Foggy would usually love to join in on. “Matty.” A hand with Foggy’s heartbeat strokes through his hair. “Thanks for the cookie and coffee.” Then with a hair ruffle, the hand leaves, and the footsteps disappear into the elevator.

“Matt? Is there something you will eat?” Sam’s voice asks from the other side of the table.

Matt shakes his head against his forearm, listening to Foggy’s heartbeat disappear into the building. At least he’s saying goodbye before he leaves. That’s something.

“Can you tell us why you won’t eat?” Steve asks from the other side of Bucky.

Eating is either an unpleasant ritual he suffers through. Or a pleasant one he revels in. He’s too wrung out right now to put the effort into eating something for the sake of calories. And he doesn’t deserve to eat anything nice. He hasn’t earned it.

Lucky nudges his knee. He ignores it.

A long silence. Then ceramic scraping against wood as Bucky pushes his own plate away. The smell of freshly baked bread and jam gone from it. “Think he needs a good person talk.”

Steve’s heartbeat speeds up suddenly, catching his attention, before levelling out. “Right. I’ve got something for that. Wait a moment. I’ll go first.” Wood against wood as the chair scrapes away from the table. His footsteps move to the kitchen area, then back. Sound of paper crackling. “Here Matt.”

Something set in front of him. Smells like paper and crayon. He doesn’t raise his head. What are they up to?

“You can touch it.” Flesh against wood as Steve sits back down. “She made the crayon extra thick so you could feel it.”

Curiosity overcomes the heavy feeling weighing him down. He raises his head enough to free his arm, then traces his fingers feather light over the paper. Shapes of thick waxy crayon on rough paper.

“That’s you,” Steve says. Voice soft. “She said she used up half her red crayon drawing you. Next to you is her, and her father. Her name is May. She’s six years old, and she wouldn’t exist if you hadn’t pulled her out of the way of a drunk driver two months ago. You took her home and told her to call her father. Now she’s living with him instead of her abusive mother. She’s happy. She draws every day, and every one of those drawings including that one wouldn’t exist if you hadn’t chosen to save her. She has a whole lifetime of creating things, meeting people, shaping lives, ahead of her. And every last bit of that stems from a choice you made that night. You’re a lawyer, so you must believe in evidence? And from what I can see that drawing is evidence that you Matt Murdock are a good person.”

Matt traces the shapes of thick crayon. He remembers a tiny body held tight to his chest. Little heart beating fast with fear.

“You always try,” Bucky says from the chair beside his. “All of this. It knocks you down again and again. But you always get back up and try again.”

Matt shakes his head. If he were really trying, then he wouldn’t keep failing.

“Hey. There are rules to this you know.” Humour in Bucky’s voice. “We get to tell you reasons why we think you’re good. Your job is to shut your trap and listen.”

Matt rests his head on his forearm again. He’s not sure what to think about this.

Claire’s hand rests on his head. He manages not to flinch. “You are the worst goddamn patient in the world, and you’re giving me grey hairs. So many grey hairs. But the first time I met you, it was because you almost killed yourself trying to save a little boy. I can make jokes about dumpsters or you obviously rushing in blind - no pun intended - and getting yourself stabbed. But the reason why you were so desperate was this little boy you didn’t even know. He was nothing to you. A voice you overheard. I’m sure there are plenty of people in fancy suits who say you should’ve ignored him, but you didn’t. I saw you. You were so banged up you shouldn’t have been walking, and you got up, and tore the world apart to get him back. You put your life on the line for strangers Matt. That’s the definition of a good person.”

A small smile in Bruce’s voice. “You’re sweet. When you were still unsure around us, and Bucky was upset watching that movie, your first instinct was to help him.”

Tapping noises. Tony doesn’t stop whatever he’s doing with his electronic thing. “First month you did your Daredevil thing attacks in Hells Kitchen went down by 30 percent. By the third month they were down by 80 percent. No way that’s not statistically significant. You do good, thus you are good.”

“You took care of Foggy when he was sick, even when you felt bad yourself. You are good Matt.” A sweet smile in Pepper’s voice.

“Oh, I got one.” Shifting noises as Clint moves in his chair. “You called out Nat on being sick, so you knew Sam would take care of her. That’s good. Maybe not for Sam, but definitely for Nat.”

Natasha’s voice is still hoarse, but better than yesterday. She’s already getting better. “Even when you’re out of it your first instinct is to protect people you care about. It’s so deeply ingrained that you’re doing it semi consciously. Not many people could say that.”

“The easiest word for you to say is your best friend’s name,” Sam says in that calm voice of his. “Not food or water, or anything else you might want. Not swearing or complaint. About the only word you seem able to say most of the time is the name of someone you care about. That’s not what bad people do Matt. You’re good deep down to your core. And if you have an argument against that I’d like to hear it.”

There are arguments against all of those things. He’s sure of it. But he can’t think of any while his head is swirling as much as it is. It’s a lot to take in. All their hearts say truth, and that’s even more difficult to take in.

“Please eat something Matt.” Bucky’s voice, rough and soft. “Please try.”

Matt nods against his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a hidden layer to this chapter I've hinted at before. If you want an idea of one of the biggest issues Bucky dealt with / is dealing with here are the main hints:
> 
> In the previous chapter Bucky pointed out most people think of him as the bad guy.
> 
> His reaction in this chapter to Matt thinking he's bad. A similar version of the words he says to Matt at the end of the first scene were said to him by Steve.
> 
> The whole team is very practiced at giving good person talks, because they've had a lot of practice with Bucky.


	24. Chapter 24

Matt sits on a swinging tire in the new jungle gym and listens to Clint whoop as he explores it.

The jungle gym is a lot of everything. Ropes, tunnels, poles. It covers a space at least as big as the main gym area, and continues all the way up to the high ceiling in places. There are a lot of obstacles he’ll be excited to use when he gets both his arms back. A long line of hanging tennis balls that you can monkey bar along. Apparently swinging from one to the other is the best way to improve your grip over any other exercise.

There’s a similar line of hanging doors. Climbing from one to the other along the dozen or so doors is supposed to be a huge challenge. There are sections you can use for bouldering, including a few that mean you have to climb upside down. A salmon ladder he really wants to try. And a number of places you can only reach through precarious leaps. The floor is covered in padding because as Tony said “I trust you kids, but safety first.”

“Mr Murdock.” Jarvis’s voice breaks through his lazy swinging. “Olivia has contacted the tower asking if you wish to see her today?”

Mat jolts upright from his lounged position. Something heavy and uncomfortable lodges in his stomach. Olivia wanting to take the rest of his statement. Only there is no rest of his statement. He’s told her everything he has straight in his head, which is nothing important. He’s told her every detail but the vital ones.

“Mr Murdock?” Somehow Jarvis sounds softer. Clint’s stopped whooping. “Do you wish to talk to Olivia today?”

Matt takes a breath that chokes in his throat. Shakes his head.

“As you wish Mr Murdock. I’ll inform her not to come.”

It’s a relief. It’s also a disaster. Olivia’s not going to come, so he doesn’t have to try and tell her what happened. But he said she shouldn’t come which means he’s choosing not to even try giving her a statement. He’s proving that he can’t do this. Worse. That he can’t even try to do this.

He fumbles his way off the tire swing, lands neatly on the padded floor. His chest burns. His heart beating too fast under the hand he rubs against his sternum.

Lucky noses at his legs, stumbling on the padded floor.

There’s a tunnel he might be able to make it to. It’s under the tallest tower in the middle of the room. A well judged swing on a rope that makes his shoulder complain. His feet land on a ridge jutting out from the tower structure. Duck down a bit. Find the hidden handhold that smells like chalk. Use it to swing to the next handhold. Two hands would really help right now.

He can hear the way the tunnel channels the air around it. Clint had found and cooed at it earlier. Calling it a cute baby tunnel. That was before he found another tunnel that he said even Natasha would have to army crawl to get inside. This tunnel is about big enough for him to sit inside. It’ll get him out of the open at least. Maybe he can talk himself out of whatever panic attack he’s heading towards.

Maybe he can deal with this on his own for once.

One last swing and his hand grips the bottom of the tunnel. Not perfect, but he’s almost there. He pulls up his body weight with his left arm, ribs and shoulder complaining. A spasm of pain around his ribcage makes his hand twitch open in surprise. He falls.

The padding cushions him better than should be possible. Something from Tony’s R and D department maybe. But Matt lies there for a moment anyway, blinking rapidly.

He fell. He failed again. He can’t do anything right.

The scream wrenches from his throat before he can stop it. Transforms into a wail that tastes like anger, like anguish, like white hot pain. His fist punches the padding, but it gives in too easily, springing away from the blow before reforming. It’s not enough resistance. He’d find something else if he could. If his entire world hadn’t shrunk down to consist of only what’s right under his fist.

And there are voices. A cold wet nose with Lucky’s heartbeat. Punching. Kicking. He wants to destroy the padding beneath him. But no matter what he tries, it springs back into place unhurt.

A hand touches his arm. Matt flinches away, scrambling backwards from the spot he was attacking. His whole body is too hot and dripping with sweat. His heart beats so fast it sounds like a hum. Air pants in and out of his lungs fast and heavy. He’s trembling.

“Matty.” Bucky’s voice from a little way in front of him. Crouched down low. “Are you OK? Are you hurt?”

“I couldn’t do it!” Matt shouts. The words so loud they shred his throat. His breath pants so hot it hurts. Boiling lines of water spill out of his eyes to mingle with the sweat.

Matt can’t focus enough to hear Bucky’s heartbeat, even if he’s crouching close. But he hears the hitch in his breath. The cautious surprise that colours his voice when he speaks again. “Couldn’t do what Matt?”

“The.” Each word is jagged and painful. They feel less like he’s speaking them, than someone is knocking them forcefully out of him one after the other. His trembling hand points towards where he remembers the tunnel being. He’s probably wrong. He can’t hear it above the pounding in his ears. It takes too long to find the word. “Jump. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t - I couldn’t do it.”

Bucky speaks slowly and carefully, like he’s thinking about every word. “Matty. It doesn’t matter. No one cares whether you made the jump or not. You broke your arm, shoulder, and ribs three weeks ago. No one is even expecting you to make any jumps. All we care about is whether you get hurt. Did you get hurt?”

Matt sits back on the padding, falling out of the ready crouch. He feels numb. Dazed. His skin is hot with tears and sweat. The words cut up his throat like broken glass. “I couldn’t do it.” It comes out as a raw whisper, and he means everything. He couldn’t make the jump. He couldn’t talk when he wanted to. He couldn’t stop hurting himself. He couldn’t get cookies and coffee from Stacy. He couldn’t stop crying or being scared. He couldn’t give Olivia his statement. He couldn’t stop them. He couldn’t get up. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

“OK pal. OK.” Softness in Bucky’s voice. “Can you tell me what number you’re on?”

There’s too much everything in his head. But above all of it is a bone deep weariness. He’s tired of all of this. Trying and failing. Trying and failing over and over and over. There’s a thought that catches in his throat and hurts. The thought feels like a knife in his hand, and metal biting over where an artery pulses. What if he could end this?

Would it even end? If he believes in his catholic teachings it wouldn’t. He’d go from this hell to one that makes this look like paradise. Maybe good old fashioned hell fire. Or maybe the exact same situation he’s in now without Foggy, or Karen, Claire, or the Avengers to help him. Or a night of _them_ that never ends. Does he believe a God would do that? He’s not sure. Murder is a sin, right? Even if it’s your own life you take.

But maybe he’s wrong. Maybe there is no God, and all of this would just end.

Wet licks his face. He jerks backward, whimpering. Overbalances. The padding cushions his fall.

Lucky hovers over him, panting. Hot breath fans across his face. No. Gasping he pushes away the dog’s muzzle with more force than he should. Cigarette smoke and cheap beer chokes him for a moment. He shakes it off, but the tendrils of the memory cling.

“Hey Matty, you’re OK.” Not Bucky’s voice. Foggy’s. From his left. “You want Lucky to back off?”

Foggy. It’s Foggy. Matt blinks from where he is on the floor, traces his fingers over the padding and tries to persuade his senses to focus enough to poke the room around him. He takes a deep breath, then another one. “Did I do something wrong?”

“What?” Foggy’s voice comes less than a metre to his left. As Matt focuses, the warmth of his body moves lower. Lying down on the padding by Matt. “No. Why would you think that?”

The words are hard to find. Even pulling himself out of his head enough to interact is hard. “I always. I always.” He frowns. “You weren’t here before.”

‘No buddy. I was hanging out in Tony’s legal department, which is kind of shark crazy, but there are a few friendly fish who are cool. Bucky asked me to come. Said you had a bad moment earlier and were having a hard time coming out of it.”

Matt trembles from where he lies on the floor. It’s a distant memory, like he watched it happen to someone else. “I think I - I think I yelled at him.”

Foggy snorts. “Yeah. You don’t have to worry about him getting upset about that. Bucky looked like you’d given him an all expenses paid trip to Disney World. I mean, he knows you were a little out of it. And apparently you went into your fatal system error mode - his words not mine - where you kind of mumble the last couple words you said over and over instead of finding new ones. Then a blue screen of death dissociation not even Lucky could get you out of. Again, his computer related reference. But you said a sentence, so I think he’s hoping it means more than the last time you spoke to him.”

Matt lies there and blinks for a long moment, trying to wrap his head around someone getting excited because he did something as normal as speak to them. He tries to probe the room with his ears. He’s pretty sure there’s no one nearby except Lucky and Foggy. “I’m not sure if I can do it again.” Which is stupid. He should be able to speak. He can sometimes. So why not always?

“That’s fine.” Fabric against rubber as Foggy shifts on the padded floor. “He’s not expecting you to. I guess just try it when you guys are alone. I mean, don’t force it. But don’t psych yourself out either. We can even hang out sometimes. You, me, and him. If you can’t talk directly to him, we can see if you can talk to me with him around, and kind of build our way up. Don’t sweat it. Fiona says there are plenty of ways to try and deal with your mutism when you’re ready, and to be honest if all of them fall flat that’s fine. You’ve got your aids. You’ve got me. We can deal.”

“I can’t-” There’s that word again. It keeps coming up. “I can’t be a lawyer if I can’t speak.”

“Sure you can. Nelson and Murdock, right? You’ll help prepare, I’ll do any speeches. It’ll be cool. You’ll make me look twice as awesome. And I don’t want you worrying about this right now. Nelson and Murdock are on hold. The firm can wait.”

His chest feels tight. “How long?”

Foggy hums thoughtfully. “At the very least until after your trial. Right now we have enough to keep our apartments and the office for maybe four months? But donations are still coming in. My lease is up on my apartment the end of this month, and I’m not planning on renewing it. I wasn’t attached to that place anyway. That might buy us a bit more time. I figure we’ll wrap up your trial. I’ll keep my muscles flexed by consulting on some of the cases in Stark legal. You can dabble in what you want, while concentrating on getting better. Afterwards we might have to work out of the tower for a bit until we decide how we’ll deal with security. It’ll work out.”

Matt takes a deep breath, then another. His eyes feel too hot. All the sweat from before has cooled, leaving him freezing. “Foggy. Foggy I can’t.” That word. He hates that word. “I can’t. I can’t do anything. How am I supposed to be a lawyer if… Foggy everyone saw. They all… Everyone saw the video. They know my face. They know my name. They know what happened. How is anyone going to take me seriously? How am I - whenever anyone moves their head in my direction I’m going to wonder if they watched the video. I’m going to wonder what they’re thinking about me. Whether they’re going to bring it up. I’m never - I’m never getting away from this.”

Silence for a moment. Lucky’s tail moving slowly back and forth over the padded floor. He’s lying down somewhere nearby.

“Bucky said he thought you had something eating at you. That’s part of why he asked me to come. So is this it? Is this what’s bothering you?” Hair against rubber as Foggy turns his head. In Matt’s direction?

Matt swallows. Opens his mouth. Closes it.

“Something else?” Foggy’s voice is soft. No trace of anger. “Clint thought it had something to do with you not wanting to see Olivia. He said that’s when you started to look anxious.”

Burning hot lines cut their way from his eyes to his temples. Again? Seriously, he’s crying again? He exhales a shaky breath and tries to pretend it doesn’t sound wet.

“Matty?”

Matt forces himself up on his elbows. Frowns as he focuses until he finds the deep repetitive sighs of Lucky’s breathing. Scrubbing a sleeve across his stupid betraying eyes, he half stumbles, half crawls the short distance to the dog. A hand finds the dog lying on his side. The tap tap tap of Lucky’s tail against the padded floor starts up as Matt stokes him in apology for pushing him away earlier.

“Hey buddy. You want to tell me?” Shifting as Foggy sits up. “You’ll feel better if you tell me. You can use your aids if you want. I’ve got your satchel here.”

Matt’s hand plays with the fluffy fur around Lucky’s neck. “You’ll get upset again.”

“And you’re upset now. I’d like to share that if you’ll let me. If you trust me with that. It’ll help you feel better. Telling me has got to beat waiting for this to build up to another overflow situation again.”

Not if Foggy leaves. Matt leans down, rests his head on Lucky’s chest. The rhythmic whining noise of his breathing is so loud. Lungs aren’t his favourite sound. He prefers the steady beating of heats. But Lucky’s slow steady breathing isn’t so bad. It’s kind of like white noise. Lucky licks at the nape of his neck, which is gross. But then he curls up tighter around Matt to rest a chin on his upper arm, and that’s pretty nice.

“Yeah. I’m breaking the moment to take a picture of this.” Plastic against fabric. Foggy pulling out his phone. “Sorry bud, but my Mom’s going to shout at me if I don’t send her this. And it might be good material for your tumblr thingy.”

Matt shifts a little to scrub at his face.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t catch enough of your face to tell you were crying. You just look like you’ve had a workout or something. Want me to describe it to you later, and you can decide whether you want to let Clint post it?”

“I don’t.” He takes a breath. It comes out choked. “I don’t want to decide anything like that. Can you - can you just do it?”

“Sure bud. I’ll send it to my Mom and Karen. If they approve I’ll send it to Clint.” Plastic against fabric as Foggy puts his phone away. His warmth comes closer. Not lying anymore, but sitting. “Back to our regular program. Feelings talk.”

“Hate feelings talks,” Matt grumbles.

“I know bud. I know. But I think whatever this is has been eating you for a while. Bucky said you were acting OK until you met with Olivia yesterday, and you’ve been off since. You know, more off for you. Is it because she said she thought it wasn’t worth finishing the statement?”

Matt listens to the steady in and out of Lucky’s breathing. The dog’s chest moves his head up and down. The warm is nice.

“You’ve been talking to her for a while, right? So she must already have plenty. And the police have the video. You did good. It’s OK if you don’t finish up.”

“I didn’t do good!” Matt shouts loud enough for Lucky to raise his chin from his arm and start licking at the nape of his neck again. Gross. It does help shock him back towards semi-calm again. “I didn’t - I didn’t. I tried, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I can’t do anything. I can’t do _anything_ anymore Foggy.”

Foggy takes a deep breath. It shakes a little. His heart beats too fast, but when he speaks his voice isn’t far off calm. “That’s a pretty big statement counsellor. I expect you have evidence to back it up?”

Matt’s mouth opens and closes several times too many, and then all the words try to spill out at once. “I try to stop hurting myself. I can’t. I tried to - I tried to make the jump. I couldn’t. I tried to get the cookies and coffee. I couldn’t. I hid behind Bucky from a little old lady in a wheelchair Fog! I couldn’t even walk twenty fucking feet from the elevator. I can’t talk, not even to Bucky. He deserves so much, and I can’t even give him that. I couldn’t give Olivia a statement. I barely gave her anything. Maybe enough for assault if you forget about the lack of any kind of usable descriptions. Nothing about the - nothing about the -” He shakes off Lucky’s licking and growls. “I can’t say it. I can’t think about it. I can’t do anything. There’s your fucking evidence!”

Foggy’s heartbeat speeds up. A little wet in his breathing. Not as much as he’d thought there would be. “Your argument is flimsy at best. Where’d your amazing debating skills go? A first year law student could shoot these down. First of all the self harm thing is a work in progress. You’re trying new things. You’re letting yourself be redirected. I don’t really want to say it this early, but it does look like you’re making progress. Other things you’re going to have to work on in the same way. I wouldn’t expect someone with your injuries to make jumps or flips or whatever you were trying to do, but work on healing for a bit and you’ll get there. Your anxiety is the same thing. Did you know that PTSD shows up on scans as brain damage? Right now you’re brain damaged Matt. Your hormones are all out of whack. It’s going to take time and work for that damage to heal. As for the statement, if it’s that important to you, we can help. What if you took a xanax? You could talk to her while it’s at its peak instead of at its tail-end. That might work?”

Matt pushes himself up from Lucky’s side, places his hand on the dog’s ribs so he can still feel that steady breathing. At least his stupid eyes have stopped crying. There’s that. “I can’t Fog.”

“That’s fine. We don’t really need it anyway. We have the video.”

“No. I mean-” This is usually where he’d stop. He’s talked so much about everything already. He could stop now. Foggy wouldn’t know he was holding something back. Or maybe he would. Maybe this tension would build again and he’ll start hitting things, or screaming for no fucking reason, or hysterically crying like some hurt kid. Then they’ll figure out he’s bottling something up again, and he’ll be right back here. It goes against every instinct he has to continue, but he drags the words out. “I can’t make the rest of the statement because I don’t remember what happened. I thought I did. I thought I remembered all of it. Then I tried to tell Olivia and -” he takes a breath. Holds it. Lets it out. “It’s like someone’s taken the whole sequence of memories where things happened and thrown a giant wrecking ball through them. I have pieces, but I don’t know which part goes where. I don’t even know if they’re all there. And I don’t want to sort them out, because then I’d have to look at them, and that hurts Foggy. It hurts. And I don’t understand why all of this is so difficult. I’ve been through trauma before, and sometimes it’s been bad, but it’s never been this bad.”

“Matty.” Foggy sighs. A bit more wet in his voice than before. “Going through something traumatic in the past doesn’t automatically make you level up or something and be able to cope better with the next shit thing that comes along. In fact it’s more likely to give you major hit points and make you react worse to said shit thing.”

“Really Foggy?” The smile refuses to stay on his face. “A video game metaphor?”

“I know you’ve heard me play them enough times to understand even with the blind thing. I’ll tell Fiona about the jumbled memories deal, but I get the feeling she’s going to tell you it’s normal. Look. Forget Olivia for now. The statement is one thing you don’t need to worry about. Just focus on getting better.”

“I don’t want to focus on getting better.” Matt shakes his head stubbornly. “I want to be better.”

“I know bud.” A faint choked sound in Foggy’s voice. “You’ll get there.”

Matt taps his fist rhythmically against the padded floor. “I’m acting like a stupid scared kid. I keep - I keep fucking crying. I keep wanting people close. I hid behind Bucky. I clung to his t-shirt like a kid clutching his mother’s skirts. I know I was - I know I was - but people don’t act like this, do they? It was only a few-” was it? Was it a few hours? He’d heard the woman scream around eleven pm. Foggy phoned his apartment at nine thirty am. How many hours in between did he spend in that alley? “People have gone through the same thing, and not been so messed up.”

“I’m going to quote Fiona at you right now Matt. ‘There is no average reaction to this kind of trauma.’ And do you actually know anyone personally who’s gone through this? Would you blame someone if they were a little messed up? It’s only been three weeks Matt.”

Matt slams his fist into the padding. “I’m more than a little messed up Foggy.”

“Yeah Matty. I know.” Humour in his voice, though his heart doesn’t slow down. “Though between you and me you’ve been messed up for a while. Give it time OK buddy. The meds will help. You can take the xanax when things get too much. You’re exercising. That helps. You’re talking to me about these things. That’s awesome. Keep eating. Keep letting us help you. OK?”

“I shouldn’t need -” he rocks once, short and sharp. Raises his hand to his hair, lowers it. “I just. I want something to do Foggy. I want something I can do. I don’t want to be this useless.”

A pause. “I think I can chase something up. You need to go punch something first?”

Matt pushes himself to his feet. He’s still shaky, but there’s enough tension left to grit his teeth. “Yeah. Yeah.”

“OK. You go make a punching bag cry. Then shower and meet me up in the communal lounge. I’ll have something ready.”

***

They work at the dining table until supper. They try to work through supper, but Foggy says Bucky shakes a wooden spoon at them while wearing a ‘kiss the cook’ frilly pink apron, so that idea goes down the drain.

Stark’s legal department occasionally does pro bono work. Mostly things referred to them by Sam from the VA centre, or Clint who seems to know everyone and their problems. The cases might not be from Hell’s Kitchen, but they are people who genuinely need help, so at least he’s being useful to someone.They get the heavy work done for two small cases. Not bad.

The food is OK. Plain chicken and rice for Matt. A more spiced version for everyone else. Bucky covers his in barbecue sauce, and Clint smothers his in ketchup. Gross.

“Guys.” Something hums with electricity in Foggy’s hand. “Karen wants to bring Jessica to our chocolate tasting. That OK?”

“As long as she’s a fun drunk,” Tony says from across the table. “I don’t want her bringing down our party.”

“Matt?” Steve asks, voice gentle. “Do you mind if Karen brings her friend?”

Matt shrugs. Concentrates on eating.

A pause, like everyone’s having some kind of silent conversation. Right, he’ll have strangers on his trigger list after this morning. His stomach does clench at the thought of someone he doesn’t know coming here. But it’s not like he can avoid all his triggers forever. He needs to face up to them at some point.

“OK. She’ll come,” Sam says eventually. “But you can change your mind at any time Matt. This is your home too. You get a say on who comes into it.”

***

Jessica smells like dirt and whiskey. Her heart is strange. As loud as Steve’s and Bucky’s. Not a normal human.

The first thing she says when she steps off the elevator is “I’m only here for the chocolates and booze, and because Blondie won’t take no for an answer.”

She snorts when they decide on Never have I ever for a drinking game. “Sure. Are we dressing in our jammies and painting our nails too?”

Matt sits in the corner of the large couch and tries not to feel exposed. Foggy sits on the cushion next to his, then Bucky, then Steve, like usual. Karen, Jessica, Natasha and Clint on the smaller couch. Sam and Pepper in the armchairs. Bruce and Tony on the floor near the coffee table.

He tries not to flush as they state the limitations of the game. No sex questions. No questions about killing (he assumes that one’s for Bucky). Anyone can drop out of the game at any time. No one will be forced into elaborating if they don’t want to. Then Karen’s footsteps walk to the kitchen area and back with rustling of paper in a hand. Matt’s trigger list? Odd patterns in Jessica’s heart as she reads it.

Matt distracts himself by trying to take the tug toy off Lucky. He half expects Jessica to make some sarcastic comment about the list, but she hands it back without a word.

Everyone choses their poison. Water for Bruce. Bourbon for Jessica. Beer for Matt, Steve, Bucky, Pepper, and Sam. Tequila for Tony, Clint, Natasha, and Karen. Tony complains they should all be drinking the same thing to make it fair, but no one else seems to mind. It’s uneven anyway with all their alcohol tolerances so varied.

If you drink, you also get to choose a chocolate, which Tony claims is extra incentive for everyone to spill their secrets.

A few innocuous questions about trips places. Matt’s never been out of New York State, so he doesn’t drink.

“Never have I ever had stitches,” Pepper says, which is blatantly unfair. Everyone drinks, including Karen.

A smile in Bruce’s voice. “Never have I ever hurt myself because I was walking and texting.”

Tony drinks with a “Are you trying to get me drunk Brucie?” So does Clint, Foggy, and with awkward shuffles Steve and Bucky.

“I think I’ve done everything,” Tony says thoughtfully. “No. Wait. Never have I ever thrown up on a roller coaster.”

Steve and Matt drink.

“I still blame you Buck,” is all Steve will say about it. “What’s your story Matt?”

Matt picks up the small computer. Foggy had already set it up so he could send a message to the group. ‘Elevators make me motion sick. What do you think?’

“How do you do all your-” Clint makes some kind of wild gesture. “Flips and stuff?”

‘There’s a difference between throwing yourself around and getting thrown around.’ Cars and elevators make him motion sick. The subway makes him everything sick. He is never setting foot on a roller-coaster ever again if he can help it. But flipping off a rooftop is a piece of cake.

A few more rounds. Sometimes Matt drinks. Sometimes he doesn’t. The mouthfuls of beer start to take effect soon enough. Foggy’s right that he’s a lightweight.

Foggy says “Never have I ever broken a bone.” Everyone groans and drinks.

Karen says “Never have I ever jumped off a building.” Matt scowls and drinks. So do most of the others including Jessica. Huh. It looks like she’s going to fit in fine, even if she still hasn’t recovered her former levels of sarcasm.

The chocolates are amazing. Matt tries a different one each time and tries to figure out which ones Anna might like. Shifting closer to Foggy he types a message on the computer, not sending it. ‘Can we save some chocolates for Candy and your parents?’

“Sure,” Foggy’s arm moves against his as he shrugs. “Why not. Tony ordered enough to feed a small army. Which ones do you think they’d like?”

He and Foggy trade some ideas back and forth. They stop every now and then to drink. Jessica drops out of the game saying she likes her version better, which seems to just be downing bottles of alcohol like they’re bottles of water without waiting for a cue to drink.

Their conversation somehow veers to whether damage caused by Thor counts as an act of God. Matt has no idea how it got from chocolates to that, but they are lawyers. If anyone could do it, it's them.

The game kind of trickles off as Foggy asks for the others input. Everyone gets wrapped up in the debate, which then morphs into whether it's ethically right to genetically engineer new species based on Pokemon. Again, how?

Natasha moves at some point to sleep in Matt's new hammock. Clint soon joins her.

Jessica breaks off from her aggressive swearing filled argument why Jigglypuff should never see the light of day to ask "I'm confused. Are they together or some kind of weird psychic siamese twins?"

"My bet is psychic siamise twins," Sam says from the armchair, sounding more deeply relaxed than drunk.

Karen makes a thoughtful and definitely drunk noise. Some kind of jagged motion. A gesture? "Now now," she slurs, sounding like she's trying to be diplomatic. "There's no reason they couldn't be both." She stops to giggle. "Clintasha..."

"Hmm." Clinking of glass as Jessica puts another empty bottle down. She sounds well past tipsy, but not as drunk or dead as all that alcohol should make her. "Stucky was always my favourite."

Bucky splutters. Foggy and Sam make noises like they're trying not to laugh. Steve's heart beats confused.

At least Matt's not the only one wondering why people are suddenly talking in some kind of code.

Scuffling from the other side of the coffee table. Pepper and Bruce seem to be sitting on Tony, refusing to let him up until he promises not to science while drunk.

"But the Pokemon Brucie. The Pokemon!" Shuffling sounds, short and jagged. Limbs trying to move but not getting far. The noise chases away the warmth in his belly from the beer, replacing it with something heavy and cold. "C'mon I'll make you a Pikachu. You can name it Thor. Guys. Let me up. C'mon. Please?"

_Matt pushes himself to his elbows. A thud as the baseball bat hits his back and shoves him back down._

He drives a fist into his leg, hard. The pain resonates through him, chasing the memory out of his head. The 'can't get up' feeling sets up residence in his throat instead, making it difficult to swallow.

Scrambling noises as Lucky gets to his feet. Cold wet with the dog's heartbeat touches his hand. Matt strokes his head, and the safe monotony of the task gives him a moment to breathe. Silence around him. There was conversation before, wasn't there?

"Hey Matty?" Foggy's voice, close enough to vibrate through him. "What number are you on?"

His body feels strained and raw. Like someone had jammed a taser into his side instead of whatever really happened. And he knows what that feels like. It's hard to find the right rhythm for breathing. It's hard to convince his heart to stop leaping around in his chest. He raises three fingers.

Conversations start up again, but he can't keep track of them. Scanning their heart beats, he finds them faster than they should be. Jessica talks in short, often sarcastic phrases. She sounds a lot less drunk than she did before.

Why can't things be normal? Is it too much to ask to have an evening drinking, and chatting, and not making a complete fool of himself?

"Matt?" Foggy whispers beside him. "Give me your hand bud."

It takes too long to realise his hand is clenched in his hair, pulling. And he's rocking. A loose cross legged position that suggests he's been rocking for a while.

Every warm feeling gathered through alcohol and company falls away. It's like they never happened. No. Worse than that. It's like they happened. It's like someone said 'sure you can feel something normal for once' then the moment things are almost as easy as they used to be, that someone says 'actually changed my mind' and the whole thing gets pulled out from under him, leaving him reeling.

"Matt?"

He gets up, follows his mental map to the elevator. The doors close behind him and Lucky, but they don't quite cut out the sound of racing heartbeats. Everyone worried because he left a room. Because he can't be trusted by himself.

Growling, he slams his head back against the elevator wall behind him.

"Mr Murdock," Jarvis says, sounding so calm and reasonable. "If you continue hurting yourself I'll be forced to open the doors."

Right. Right. He takes a step away from the wall so he won't be tempted to do it again. Tries to channel that tension into his arm instead. Loosening his wrist, he moves his arm in quick sharp movements, flapping his hand until his fingers knock together. Not his favourite stim, but it does something. If he moves his arm fast enough it feels violent. A faint copy of the release he gets from boxing. Better than shadow boxing, not as good as hitting a bag.

Jessica saw him. She was new. Maybe she had some opinions about how he might act after what happened to him. But she didn't know. And now she knows just how fucked up he is.

Lucky leans against his legs.

"Mr Murdock. Is there someone you wish to join you?" No alarm in Jarvis's voice about Matt's stimming. He'd half expected to hear it.

Matt shakes his head. Stops stimming with a last violent movement that echoes in his wrist. Digs in the satchel hanging over his good shoulder. He has the PECS book memorised well enough that he doesn't need to take it out and spread the pages open to find the square he needs.

'Gym.'

"The gym is currently unsecured for your needs. I require you to choose a 'field trip buddy' as Sir eloquently put it in order to take you there."

Matt shakes his head, putting the square back. He knows he hasn't earned the right to be trusted. But he really needs to do something by himself now.

A pause. "I believe we can reach a compromise. Sergent Barnes has offered to wait in the second elevator on the gym level. He won't be able to see or hear what you are doing, but will be able to reach you quickly should you require it."

Matt nods. Clenches his jaw. It's about the best deal he's going to get.

***

He's feeling nicely sore. And stupidly proud of himself for wrapping his hand with the help of his teeth and clumsy unsplinted fingers, working out his tension without hurting himself for once, when he takes the small computer out of the satchel.

Skipping past his unread messages, he finds Jarvis on his contacts. 'Is Bucky still in the elevator?'

Jarvis's voice echoes from several different points on the ceiling of the gym. "He is. Would you like me to ask him to enter the gym?"

Matt shakes his head. His fingers tremble on the keyboard. There are a lot of questions spinning around his head. Whether the others are freaking out. What Jessica thinks of him now. But his fingers type something different. 'Can you form opinions on people?'

Jarvis's voice sounds strangely hesitant. "Acquiring information and making judgements is within my capacity." Right. Matt should've guessed. Jarvis may not be human, but he can think like one. "But I assure you, my opinion of you is nothing but positive."

Matt blinks, thinks back to all the things Jarvis must have seen him do. 'Why?'

"You appear to have no hostile intentions towards any of the other residents, or Sir's company, thus you are not labelled as a security risk. On every occasion a chance to aid another resident has presented itself you have taken it. My assessment is that you Mr Murdock are a kind person to everyone but yourself."

Lucky lies beside him on the mat. He focuses on the dog's heartbeat. Swallows. 'What was Jessica's opinion of me?'

"Without knowing Miss Jones, I can't offer an accurate assessment. Although she didn't directly engage you, she appeared less abrasive towards you than the others present. I feel I can confirm since many other residents are in possession of this information, that Miss Page went to great lengths to persuade her to come tonight in order to meet you. I can not disclose the exact conversation they had in the elevator on the way out of the tower due to privacy reasons, but can confirm that Miss Jones made no mention of negative opinions towards you."

Matt's rocking again. Slow movements. At least he's not doing it in front of a stranger this time. He thinks back to how he kept losing it in court. How many strangers saw that? His stomach twists. 'What about the stimming or the flashback?'

"Miss Jones's manner changed slightly after the flashback. But I could read no negative feelings towards you in her expression. There were no discernible changes when you began rocking." A pause. "Mr Murdock, am I right in thinking that you are feeling self conscious about stimming?"

Matt lowers his head, lets his silence be answer enough.

"Stimming is common in sensory and anxiety disorders. Your increased anxiety accounts for your increased stimming, but given your unique sensory condition stimming seems inevitable. Stimming is a way to regulate information overload. There are many proposed hypothesises for how this works. For example it might be a way to calm internal anxiety, or to replace unpleasant stimulation with positive stimulation. I have several articles available on the topic if you wish to read them. From my understanding your condition requires constantly taking in more information than the human brain is wired to cope with. Forgive my bluntness, but if you didn't stim I fear you may have gone quite mad by this point."

Matt smiles despite himself. 'That's still a possibility.'

"I am no therapist Mr Murdock. But I am adept at finding information. If you wish to know something, you only need to ask."

Matt taps the computer a few times before moving his hand back to the keyboard. 'Touch calms me. I don't know why. I keep on moving closer to people like Bucky and Foggy without meaning to. I think it's to do with being able to feel their heartbeat, but I don't know why that's so important.'

“People have fixated on heartbeats for many years. Some would argue as far back as there have been people to fixate on anything. There’s a very compelling theory that the entire music system is based around heartbeats. There are several research articles I can read to you that confirm the importance of heartbeats in helping infants to thrive. Just a recording of a heartbeat will encourage infants to cry less and gain weight faster. There’s an interesting article that states hearing a person’s heartbeat provokes the same feeling of closeness as eye contact. Since you are incapable of eye contact, I can hypothesise that the ability to hear or feel another’s heartbeat would be of more importance to you than someone with sight. Research suggests that humans are designed to focus on heartbeats from before birth, so it comes as no surprise that this would be something you draw comfort from.”

Matt leans back, focusing on the slight creak of the punching bag as it sways behind him. He’s understood for a while that heartbeats are something he naturally focused on. The first thing he does when he enters a room is to scan how many heartbeats there are. And when he falls asleep next to Foggy he usually wakes up with his ear pressed to the man’s chest, or his face buried in his neck, even when they start off on opposite sides of the bed. But he hadn’t wondered why until his need to be close intruded into his waking life. Until the easiest way to chase off a panic attack was a touch pulsing a heartbeat through his body.

It’s nice to think there might be a reason he’s acting so odd.

“Research involving the benefits of touch is even more prevalent,” Jarvis continues. “Touch is said to help conditions ranging from mental health to physical diseases. One study on adolescents with ADHD reported feelings of happiness, increased calm, and ability to concentrate when treated with daily touch. A rather distasteful early experiment on infants found that if all their needs were met apart from touch, they invariably died. There’s an interesting study on the effects of touch on anxiety levels that I think you might find useful. Would you like me to read it to you?”

Matt strokes his fingers over the gym mat. Nods.


	25. Chapter 25

“You can stim today, you know?” Foggy says. Scraping of metal over ceramic as he cuts up Matt’s lone pancake, moving it around in a way that apparently makes it look like there were more. “I told her about all of that. She’s used to Belle, and I told you about her brother, right? She won’t raise an eyebrow.”

Matt makes a face.

“Yeah, I know. But you know my Mom Murdock. It’s like she can smell lies. She has those creepy Mom senses. And we’ve always tried to be truthful to each other.”

Matt gestures down at the plate Foggy’s still fiddling with.

Foggy snorts. “This is a case of life or death dude. The moment my Mom walks off that elevator she’s going to be on a mission to stuff you full of food. If she thinks you’ve just finished a full meal we might be able to delay the inevitable explosion for - meh - a few hours maybe. And I’m telling you buddy, you better eat everything she puts in front of you. Or else she’ll get the look. You may not be able to see the look, but I can. I don’t want to see the look Matt.” Movement. Foggy waves the knife at him.

It’s a legitimate worry. Matt didn’t eat breakfast. A night of kicking feet and pain and not being able to move made him sluggish. He’d just about managed a run with Bucky around the gym, Foggy joining them this time. Then a xanax and off to an arraignment at the court. Foggy had pulled strings to get the earliest time so they hadn’t waited around long. The whole thing lasted a few minutes, restating his not guilty plea, and being reminded of the indictments against him. He’d had to stand which wasn’t nice, feeling eyes upon him, but he hadn’t had to talk. He’d worn the headphones. The xanax had done its job and a little rocking and Bucky letting him tap tunes on his arm had distracted him on the journey to and from court.

Then Fiona while the xanax was only a couple of hours into his system. She thinks the social anxiety he’s experiencing is more due to the video than the rape itself. The knowledge that so many people saw him like that. The worry that strangers will recognise him and judge him either for what happened then, or how he’s acting now.

She’d said Dr Seuss was the answer. She’d told him his reactions were natural. That he should focus on his friend’s opinion of himself instead of strangers. Then she said what it boiled down to was “Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

That had gone in his book of things to remind himself of, along with a long list of good things they’d spent most of the session coming up with. Foggy. Bucky. Lucky. Steve. Karen. Claire. Clint. Tony. Bruce. Pepper. Natasha. Sam. Boxing. Parkour. Fighting. Law. Helping people. Nice food. Anna. Candace. Ned. Movies. Books. Music. Nice textures. His beer. Scotch.

Then in the very back of the book she’d put the first trigger word for him to work on. He needs to choose a time at least once a day when he’s calm. She’d walked him through how to calm himself, read it, then ground and calm himself again. Even with the xanax it had taken three tries before he could remember what the word was. It’s like the moment he read it, his mind panicked and spit it out of his head, leaving him with nothing but a terrified feeling and phantom pains in his jaw.

‘Swallow.’

He can guess what that might relate to, but the memory just isn’t there.

The hum of the elevator. Matt jerks his head towards it.

“Gah. Already?” Ceramic against wood as Foggy shifts his plate in front of him. “Places people! Eat Matt, but slow. Like you’ve gorged yourself on a whole stack of these. The future of your stomach depends on your acting skills in the next few minutes.”

Matt rolls his eyes, but searches out a piece of pancake with his fork.

Shifting of wood as Sam and Steve settle on chairs around the dining table. Bucky and Natasha don’t move from the smaller couch. Their heartbeats are close together. Buzzing of electricity in their hands and beeping of some kind of game. The music sounds like Pokemon maybe? They’re competitive, whispering threats under their breaths.

The elevator doors whoosh open. Lucky goes from well behaved assistance dog waiting in hope for a stray piece of pancake, to overexcited puppy in 0.2 seconds.

Scrabbling sounds. The fast rush of air from a wagging tail. Enthusiastic yelps and snorting sounds.

“Sorry Mom. Sorry.” Humour in Foggy’s voice. “Just give him a moment to sniff you and you’ll be old news.”

Lucky snorts, sniffs, yelps, and dances for five seconds, then returns to Matt’s side sitting patiently and probably eyeing his pancake. Not the best behaviour for an assistance dog, but Bucky says he doesn’t do it anywhere else than the residential floors or the gym level. For some reason he seems to have equated the floors his people spend most of their time on as relaxed enough to do the puppy greeting act. Everywhere else he’s all business, except when let off lead in the park to run off energy.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mrs Nelson.” Shifting as Sam, then Steve stand up from the table. “We’ve heard a lot about-”

Rapid footsteps are all the warning Matt gets before soft doughy arms are wrapped around him. They squeeze tight. Mrs Nelson has more fat on her frame than Foggy, but she has the same deceptive strength too. A mix of smells from the sharp tang of metal and dusty wood that makes up her and Ned’s hardware store, to soft wool and the mints she chews on when she thinks no one is watching. Something else too. Something that’s more a feeling than a smell. It feels like sunshine on skin. Like making s’mores on a makeshift fire. Like a blanket pulled up to his chin and a hand stroking his damp hair that time he was sick over Christmas break.

Salt in the air. Soft sobbing noises. Matt shifts, uncomfortable. Then since those arms don’t seem to be letting go anytime soon, he lifts his hand to rub her back, trying to let her know he’s OK.

“Mooom,” Foggy says, exasperated. “You promised you weren’t going to do this.”

“Oh hush Franklin.” She shifts closer, her head resting against Matt’s. There’s a desperation to her hug. Like she’s afraid if she lets go Matt might disappear. “You’ll understand when you have children of your own.”

***

Foggy pokes his shoulder. “Come on Matt. Because of your stupid ‘I must be stoic and keep my ninja senses a secret’ I lost years of potential blackmail material. Could you imagine what we could’ve done if those super-senses were in the hands of someone without your catholic hangups? We would have known so many secrets. Who’s going out with who. When the best parties were happening. Whether Miss Yeoman really had it out for me because of my hair. You owe me Matt. So tell me why my Mom just dragged Captain America out of the room like he’s a naughty little kid.”

Matt grimaces, types out the message on his small computer. ‘She’s interrogating him. She’s really good at it.’

“Don’t I know it.” Creaking as Foggy leans back in his chair. “This one time my bedroom smelled of weed, for totally weed unrelated reasons.” His heart beats lie. “By the time Mom was done with me I’d spilt every single thing that even resembled a secret. Which incidentally was how I came out as bi. And when I first told her I wanted to be a lawyer. Nowadays I just try and keep no secrets from her. It’s a lot less painful than having her drag them out of you.”

Matt tilts his head, focusing on Anna’s voice in the other room, asking what measures they have in place to keep him safe, what their intentions are towards him. ‘Sounds like she’s giving him the shovel talk.’

“Ouch.” Scraping of wood as Foggy gets up from the table. “I’ll go rescue him. Assure her that her precious baby boy is safe in our loving arms.”

Jerk. Digging in the satchel, Matt pulls out Foggy’s softball and tosses it after him. A light thump as it hits his back.

Foggy laughs. “Come on Matty. You know you’re her favourite.” He tosses the ball back.

***

It takes a walk-through of Jarvis’s security measures and a demonstration of his ability to lock up any part of the communal floor considered dangerous. Apparently Foggy either told her about the suicide attempt or the cutting, or both, because she asks Jarvis to apply Matt’s restrictions to her, then walks around trying to open various drawers and cupboards. A lot of them don’t open.

He’s not sure what to think about someone he cares about so much knowing about that side of him. Still it doesn’t seem to dampen the warmth she shows towards him. And after being awkwardly cried on, she doesn’t seem pitying exactly. She demands that he and Foggy get up and wash their hands so they can help cook macaroni cheese.

She doesn’t seem perturbed by the fact that it’s only noon and they’ve reportedly just finished a stack of pancakes each less than an hour ago. Macaroni cheese is a much more complex operation than it was when Matt was a kid and got it out of a can or a box.

They boil the pasta with a tablespoon of salt. Matt makes the cheese sauce, but swaps with Sam when he zones out one too many times. Anna doesn’t make a big deal about it, although her voice takes on a little wet. She puts him in charge of the sausages and bacon which are less easy to burn. Foggy crows as he makes the perfect crispy fried onions.

Matt gets to mix all of it together, which is the best part. There’s something soothing about feeling all those different textures through the spoon. They fill up four giant dishes. It smells good enough to eat already, but Anna insists on adding breadcrumbs and more cheese, then putting the dishes in the oven to brown.

They head down in the elevator after Jarvis promises to turn off the ovens at the right time. Natasha stays to play her game and sip the honey smelling tea Sam made her. Sam and Anna chat about the perfect amount of mustard to add to macaroni sauce. “People never add enough,” Anna complains. “Sometimes they skip it entirely. It needs a kick to make it perfect.”

By the time the elevator drops Anna, Steve, and Foggy off on the gym level, Matt’s pretty sure she’s most of the way towards adopting Sam in her head like she seems to have done to Matt. The elevator goes down again, all the way to the garage to drop Sam off. Lucky leans against Matt’s legs.

“You’ll do great Matt,” Sam says as he steps off the elevator. “Just breathe and remember it’ll be over in minutes.”

The elevator whooshes up again, only Matt, Lucky, and Bucky inside. Matt’s insides coil.

“Last time you stepped off the elevator,” Bucky says, voice calm. “You do that or better we’ll call this a victory. Not expecting you to make it to the counter. Neither is Stacy.”

He should make it. He should. It’s only twenty feet.

The elevator slides to a stop. Voices and movement outside. The doors whoosh open. It’s as terrible as last time. Noise. Talking. The strange echoes of the wide open space. The click of people’s shoes, reminding him they could get closer at any point. Stacy’s heartbeat ahead of them by the structure that’s her coffee bar.

He’s shaking by the time they step off the elevator, his hand clutching Bucky’s elbow too tight.

Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.

Walk.

One step and the whole pattern of air currents around him changes, because now there’s empty space at his back. It’s too easy to imagine that empty space being blocked, trapping him on this floor. Sure, there’s another elevator, but right now it seems really far away. A peel of laughter sounds from the other end of the giant room, and he has to remind himself that it’s unlikely they’re laughing at him.

Another step. His feet feel oddly far away from the rest of him. Another step. The room seems to swallow him completely, air wrapping solidly around him. No elevator at his back.

“Hey, is that the guy?” A male voice. Not close enough to hear more than a faint murmur of heartbeat.

A female voice. “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare? Come on, I’m starving..”

“It’s fine pal. That’s enough progress for today. Three steps. Tomorrow we aim for four. Got it?” Movement. Waving Stacy over?

Matt’s shaking so much he’s not sure how to nod. He can’t feel his arms or legs. The rest of his body tingles. His breath rushes in and out too quickly. When Stacy’s heartbeat moves closer, it’s only his grip on Bucky’s arm that reminds him not to run away.

***

“Knock it off Matt!” Bucky’s solid warmth moves between him and the punching bag. “It’s time to take a break. Come on pal. It’s time to take a break. Ten laps of the gym and you get to start on the bag again.”

Matt wavers, muscles burning, but that tension is still clawing at his chest. There were people and they saw him. He can’t help but turn their words over in his mind, looking for clues about what was going on in their heads. What did he look like? Was it obvious how tight he was clinging to Bucky’s arm. Was he standing up straight, or was he cowering into Bucky? He thinks he might’ve been cowering. Did they see how panicked he was through his glasses?

He needs to hit. He _needs_ to hit.

“Ten laps!” Bucky shouts. Movement as he stands more solidly between him and the bag. “Go!”

Matt hunches his shoulders, moves to the edge of the mat to start his circuit of the gym. His hand flaps violently by his side, because it needs to hit and this is the closest he can get to that release without hitting or biting himself. Or cutting. Cutting would work. Cutting might be the only thing that will work, because he’s still up so high after all that hitting.

All his muscles are coiled so tight it’s impossible to breathe. His heart slams painfully into his chest. It hasn’t even slowed down since getting the coffee from downstairs. And this is so fucked up, because it was just getting coffee. It was just a few words that may or may not be about him spoken by a couple of strangers he’ll probably never meet again. Yet his mind won’t stop turning over those words, imagining new notes and layers of meaning.

‘It’s rude to stare.’ Doesn’t that mean the man was staring? Was he staring at Matt? Why? Was he thinking about the video? The news? Was Matt doing something stupid to make him stare? Sometimes he stims without noticing. Was he stimming? How pathetic did he look that the guy had to be reminded not to stare at him?

‘Is that the guy?’ It feels like there should’ve been more to that sentence. How did the man plan on finishing it? What was going through his head? ‘Is that the guy from the video?’ ‘Is that the guy I heard went crazy in public?’ ‘Is that the guy I hope they lock up?’ ‘Is that the guy who got raped?’ ‘Is that the guy who thousands of people watched begging them to stop raping him?’

And he’s stimming again. Hand-flapping of all things in front of Anna.

This was supposed to be a normal visit for her. Something to convince her he’s alright. Instead he’s ruining it, all because he can’t get his stupid emotions under control. Her heartbeat sounds from where she’s standing by the boxing ring, watching as Steve teaches Foggy some basic self defence moves.

Matt’s feet pace the circuit until he feels the change in air that means doorway. He ducks into the Nerf gun room, crouches behind the door and bites his arm. It’s hard to say which is better for reducing tension, this or hitting. The pressure pain is like hitting concentrated. The relief of five minutes of boxing compressed within a handful of seconds. It can reach up higher than boxing, bringing his anxiety down when it’s too intense for hitting a bag to bring enough relief. But the effects of boxing lasts longer, and the ache afterwards is more pleasant than biting.

If he uses biting to bring it down, maybe he can use boxing to take him down the rest of the way. He hopes it’s not up too high for biting, then cutting is his next option, and that feels like giving up. He stopped cutting because he knew how dangerous it could end up being. His tolerance grew too quickly. His anger and anxiety made it hard to exert the control needed to keep it safe.

But cutting works.

Footsteps. He scrapes his sleeve down. He's not sure if he does it quickly enough.

From the jump in Anna's heart-rate it sounds like he was too late. Or maybe Jarvis told them. He didn't even think of that. Jarvis would have to tell them when he's hurting himself.

Fabric shifting as Anna crouches down in front of him. "You look frustrated sweetheart. Are you frustrated?"

Matt taps the back of his head against the wall, shifts forward when he remembers he's not supposed to do that either. Deep breath. Stop acting so insane. It was just people talking. That's what they do. It's nothing to be worked up about.

"Because of the trip you took to get coffee? Is that why you're frustrated honey?" Fabric sliding across the floor to him. "I brought you your bag in case you want to talk."

Matt ignores the bag, muscles coiled tight. Most of the ramps and obstacles in here have smooth edges, but he's sure if he searches he could find some kind of hard edge. It's not a knife, but maybe it would offer the same relief. He wishes she would leave so he could try it.

"OK sweetheart. If you don't want to talk I'll guess. I've got plenty of practice. Foggy didn't speak until he was two, of course when he started he didn't stop. And I was interpreter for my brother from as far back as I remember. He's autistic. You remind me of him. I'm not saying you're autistic honey, but he had the same problem with speaking. He'd be so eloquently spoken. Then he'd get overloaded and it's like all his words would just leave." Shifting as she sits on the floor. It's awkward. The sound of fabric stretching. Wearing some kind of dress. "Strangers are on your list. Foggy said you're working on it. Did you get scared getting the coffee?"

Matt freezes. He wants to protest that he doesn't get scared. Not over something so small. Something everyone else manages just fine.

"You got scared," she says, no judgement in her voice. "And now you're frustrated at yourself for being scared?"

Close enough. But he can't bring himself to nod. It feels too much like acknowledging it.

"Honey. It's OK to be scared. All of the proudest moments in my life started with me being terrified. Adopting Foggy and having Candace. Opening the store. And I know I never talk about life before I met your father - oh sorry sweetheart. Slip of the tongue - before I met Ned, but it had more exciting moments than you kids imagine. You break it down. You take it one step at a time. You ask for help when you need it. You try not to bite off more than you can chew. Understand?"

Matt nods. And it may be his imagination, but it feels like some of the tension breaks apart in his chest. Anna knows that he was scared. She knows why he was scared. The act of communicating that, even in this strange way, makes him feel lighter.

"Forgive me for interrupting," Jarvis's voice says from the ceiling. "But a situation has come up that Captain Rogers would like you to be aware of."

***

The Avengers leave. All of them but Natasha who Steve says isn't one hundred percent yet. She argues over the communication system, which is pretty terrifying to listen to. Natasha's master manipulation against Steve's guilt powers.

Steve wins of course. He is Captain America after all.

Bucky, Foggy, and Matt listen to the briefing from Jarvis after Steve leaves, promising to take two of the dishes of macaroni cheese and some of the puddings with him. Anna tactically retreats under the guise of checking out the shooting range. An attack in New Delhi, India. Some kind of robots that disappear underground after doing their damage. The government had reached out, asking for help after they’d recovered one and linked the technology back to Hydra.

Bucky listens to the information at least six more times. His muscles are too tense, but his breathing isn't near panic attack level. Anxious, Matt guesses. He has a lot of experience with anxiety.

Matt leaves him to it, working out his remaining tension on the bag. Foggy helps brace the bag, then Matt shows him how to throw a good punch as Bucky drifts over to the shooting range.

From the enthusiastic words drifting from the soundproof room about calibres, ranges, and different types of rifles, Anna does a good job cheering Bucky up.

***

Matt's drifting in the hammock, his belly full of macaroni cheese, pecan pie, and cinnamon roll when the message comes in.

It's nearly their usual supper time, but none of them are going to be able to eat again for a while. Natasha, Bucky, Anna, and Foggy are playing monopoly. Anna's trying to talk Natasha out of violent action as Foggy attempts to argue his way out of jail for the third time.

A shiver of vibration from his left side. The bag with the aids. His fingers fumble with the small computer, putting an ear-piece in. Candace he thinks. She's sent him a couple messages today. Mostly things along the lines of asking whether Anna's smothered him yet, and when she's allowed to come and visit.

It's not Candace.

The contact says Olivia, but that can't be right. Jarvis would've told him if Olivia was here. And unlike his other contacts who are linked through phones, Olivia only ever linked to his machine from a laptop through a wireless connection facilitated by Jarvis.

Meaning whoever sent the message has to be in the tower right now.

"Drop the case and stop digging or I'll make sure the fat lawyer is the next to learn his lesson."

Matt's heart stops beating, then starts up again ten times faster to make up for it.

_Feet. Kicking. Can't get up._

_Pain and sobbing and "Foggy. Sorry."_

_Curled around his broken arm, the impact of the metal bat still vibrating through him. A hand grips his hair. The man's voice is still thick with pain from Matt's blow to his knee. "Gonna teach you a lesson you fucking bitch."_

Deep breath. Breathe. His fingers move from the computer to trace the smooth material around him. Silk with soft shapes. He traces the outline of a shape on his left. Bulky body. Thick tail. Horns. A triceratops. The hammock Tony made.

Panic vibrates through him at a resonance he can almost hear. He quietens it with the words Fiona taught him. It takes a few more traces of the triceratops shape before he can remember them, even though Fiona made him practice.

That was the past. It's over. It can't harm me. This is the present. I'm in Avengers tower. Communal lounge, and it's safe.

He'd thought the words seemed kind of cheesy, but using them, he can't deny they help. Between that, breathing, and tracing the shape, his breathing slows. He's not sure how much time has passed, and he's trembling all over, but the flashbacks fade to poke painfully at the back of his mind. He tries his best not to push them the rest of the way out of his head. Fiona said that fighting a flashback is the best way to make it come back stronger.

The familiar noises of the others playing carries on outside. Natasha is declaring that she will have Boardwalk if it's the last thing she does. They didn't notice. Good.

For a moment he thinks about using that. Keeping this to himself so they don't worry. Finding out who sent this and dealing with them before they can hurt Foggy. Anger boils inside him at the thought of anyone hurting Foggy.

But that's not something he's supposed to be doing now, is it? He's supposed to ask for help. And this is definitely something he needs help with.

Jarvis has resources he needs. Foggy can go anywhere he wants without panicking like Matt does. So he's not going to be able to look out for him. And how is he supposed to find the people behind this when going out in public and strangers make him freeze?

So he steps out of the hammock, careful to avoid Lucky lying beside it. Gathering up the small computer and the PECS book, he makes his way to the coffee table the others are gathered around.

Heartbeats speed up as they notice him. "Sweetheart," Anna says. "Are you alright?"

Crouching down, Matt hands Foggy the small computer, then turns his attention to the PECS book. He's had a lot of practice using it, so it doesn't take him long to make a sentence strip with 'Olivia' 'Karen' 'Pepper' 'Safe' '?' That one he hands to Bucky.

Olivia wouldn't send a message like that, which means someone got access to her details. He only hopes she wasn't hurt or worse for them to get them. Karen should be safe. The newspapers didn't pick up on her involvement, but if they're watching Matt they might be the type to dig deep enough to find her. And Pepper is the only resident not off saving the world or here where Matt can help keep them safe.

"I'll check pal," Bucky says at the same time Foggy lets out a barrage of colourful swears.

Matt climbs back into the hammock, curls up tight, and listens.

"Franklin, I did not give up swearing while you were growing up just to hear that kind of language." Disapproval mixed with worry in Anna's voice.

Natasha's footsteps walk away. Tapping as she texts someone? "I'll reach out to Karen and Olivia. Jarvis, keep an eye on Pepper."

"Miss Potts is occupied in her office. I've reminded her not to leave without her security detail. Might I ask what the situation is?"

Plastic on skin as Foggy hands Anna the small computer. A moment later a cluster of colourful and anatomically impossible phrases leaves her mouth. "Bucky dear, I'm going to need to borrow one of your lovely guns."

Strange metal against plastic as Bucky takes the small computer from her. A pause. His voice is almost a snarl. "I'm thinking shotgun. Blow them a - fucking - part."

"No honey." Flesh against metal as she pats his shoulder. "Something more subtle. I don't think anyone truly knows the meaning of suffering until they've had a bullet to the gut. I'd hate for them to miss such an instructive experience."

***

"My Mom is terrifying," Foggy hisses from beside the hammock. Matt hadn't zipped up the side, so he must be able to see him. "I didn't know my Mom was terrifying. Did you know my Mom was terrifying?"

Matt lets his knuckles sweep back and forth over the silk hammock. The skin there is raw and new, so the nerve endings are even more sensitive to the smooth feel.

Anna is pretty terrifying. He'd known that she had at least one gun in the house, locked up in her bedroom. And very occasionally she'd come home smelling of gunpowder, so Matt figured she practised at least enough to use her piece effectively to defend her home. From the very casual sounding conversation she's having with Natasha and Bucky, her skill set goes a lot beyond that.

"I've never used hollow points. I had a colleague once who talked my ear off about all of that. Hollow points, explosive rounds. I admit I'm boring, but I've always felt more comfortable with a good old traditional bullet." A sipping sound from over by the smaller couch. "Natasha honey, drink your tea. It'll soothe that nasty throat of yours."

An obedient sipping sound. Natasha. "Hollow points are too unpredictable. Messy. Though if that PI turns up something I may find myself comfortable with a little mess."

Jarvis had tracked down the message to an office worker on the third floor. Bucky and Natasha paid a visit, and although there was no blood on them when they came back, there was enough second hand fear smell to know they'd made quite the impression. The now fired office worker had logged into a machine and sent the message through the tower's internal system. He'd been paid a couple of thousand to do it, but only had contact with his instructor through an unknown number calling his cell one day, and an envelope put in his mail box.

Natasha has someone chasing phone records, but thinks it's a burner. They'd asked Jessica to look into the office worker, but from what Natasha found out, it looks like he was chosen for convenience. He had his place of work on Facebook. From there it wouldn't be that hard to find his phone number.

Feet against wood as Foggy turns around. "Scary assassin people, and Mom. Or maybe just scary assassin people. I don't know. Stop talking about killing. We are not going to kill anyone or maim anyone or whatever else you're thinking of. We are going to use the law, and then lock them up so they never see the light of day."

"You're right sweetheart. We'll stop. I'm just glad everyone is all right." Fabric shifting as she gets up. "Bucky honey, you look tired. You should eat something. I'll get you some more macaroni cheese." Her footsteps move to the kitchen area.

"It's best not to argue," Foggy says over Bucky's stuttered breathing. "Hey Matt, my guess is more food is heading your way as well. So you better get up out of that hammock and take it like a man."

Olivia is safe, but someone accessed her laptop. They broke into her home, hacked into her laptop, and put spyware on it. She hadn't even noticed until Natasha gained her permission to let Jarvis remotely access it to check it out.

"Bud. What number are we on?"

Olivia is discreet. She's not the type of person to spill secrets. So someone must have watched the building very closely to notice her coming and going. To have delved through all the other people and their backgrounds to guess she was connected to Matt. Sexual assault nurse examiner who starts going to the tower after Matt's there. It's not a stab in the dark if you know the pieces. But to get those pieces they would've had to watch closely. Unless there's some other way they could've found out about her. He can't think of any. Claire knew, but she wouldn't tell anyone.

Spyware was on all of her machines. Natasha even muttered about someone going to sweep her apartment for bugs. They had her under a microscope because of Matt. They broke into her apartment. They could've hurt her. Maybe they were going to if they couldn't get what they wanted through other ways.

A hand on his head. He flinches.

"Come on Matty, you can't disappear on me again. I know this was pretty scary, but everything's fine. Olivia's staying at a friends. Karen's pretty much living at Jessica's. Pepper's got terrifying probably assassin bodyguards. Everyone is safe." Hard plastic is placed on his chest. The PECS book. More plastic placed by his left hand. The small computer. "Talk to me buddy."

His throat closes up. His hand closes around the computer, and throws it across the room. It clatters somewhere next to the smaller couch.

A pause of too fast heartbeats and not being able to breathe.

"OK," Foggy says eventually. "I can understand that. The computer did bad so it's in timeout. We can deal with that. And hey, wow, Tony did a great job making it unbreakable. But the PECS are still innocent, right? Feel like using them to tell me what's bothering you?"

His hand trembles as it finds the right square. 'Safe.' Then he flips to the people page, gestures his hand over all of them.

A smile in Foggy's voice. It sounds sad. "If I knew you were going to assign yourself protector I would've argued for less people in your book."

Matt frowns, gestures at the page again.

"Buddy, we've been through this. Everyone's safe. Just breathe OK. You're working yourself up."

Shifting from the smaller couch. Bucky. "He repeating the same question?"

Matt drops the 'safe' square to rub at his chest. It hurts. His breathing comes harsh and painful. Without much hope he shows Foggy the 'safe' card again. He's not sure what he needs, but it's something to do with that.

"Yeah. We're stuck on repeat. I hate reruns." The hand with Foggy's heart rests on his shoulder. "Come on Murdock. Do your creepy lie detector thing. Listen to my heart. We've checked. You, me, Mom, Bucky, Natasha, Olivia, Fiona, Claire, Karen, even my Dad and Candy. We're all safe. The only people who aren't safe are the rest of the Avenger team, but since they're on a mission fighting - robots?"

"Mole robots," Natasha says.

"Right. Who thinks of these things? Mole robots. Since they're on a mission fighting mole robots dubious safety is kind of an occupational hazard. Everyone else though is A-OK."

Foggy's heart says truth. But if they found Olivia, they can find others, right? How close are they watching him? Who is they exactly? Is it _them_ , or one of _them_? The second one, he said something about teaching him a lesson right before - and the message said that too.

The hammock shifts as Foggy sits down. Foggy's arms pull him sideways towards that familiar heartbeat. "Whatever asshole organised that message couldn't even get in the tower to send it. They had to find someone else to do it. They can't get to us Matty. They can't get to us." Foggy's arms loop around him. "Buck. You got the pills?"

Uneven footsteps move towards them. Rattling of plastic. The pill bottle.

"Xanax buddy." Foggy taps the back of his hand. "Your last dose wore off hours ago. And I think this situation calls for it. You'll feel better."

He almost drops the pill twice before Foggy helps him guide it to his mouth.

"I'll get him something to eat," Anna says quietly, worry in her voice.

Skin against skin. The arm not wrapped around Matt rubs his face. Frustration in Foggy's voice. "Mom, this isn't something you can solve with baking!"

"He's skin and bones Franklin. And I’m not just saying that as a mother. He's lost a unhealthy amount of weight in a short time.” Sound of hair moving as she shakes her head. “His immune system could get lowered. He could get sick. His injuries could heal wrong. Not to mention what it could do to his mood. I just want him happy and healthy.”

“And you don’t think I want that?” Upset in Foggy’s voice. A lot of upset. “Dammit Mom, I’m trying my best here.”

Matt clutches the ‘safe’ card. Foggy’s heart beats against his head, and he doesn’t like how the upset words vibrate through him. He wants to ask again. He wants to know that everyone is OK, and that everyone will continue being OK. The everyone’s safe words help, but the relief quickly fades. He wants to hear them again, or maybe he wants something else. He’s not sure. All he knows is he still can’t breathe.

Natasha’s voice is even, only a little of her sore throat showing through. “You want to argue over him, you do it on another floor.”

Foggy’s breath hitches like he’s trying to hold back tears. “I need help here Mom. Not a lecture. I know Matt’s going through something, but I’m going through something too. And I - I just need you to trust I’m doing right by him. I need you to be my Mom right now. Not criticise or interfere. Because I know you don’t mean to, but when you do that it makes me think I’m doing a shit job, and I already make myself feel that enough times on my own. So, OK. That’s what I’ve got to say.” It sounds rehearsed.

Matt focuses on his breathing. The xanax will kick in. This will pass. He fights not to show Foggy the card again. But the idea that everyone’s in danger doesn’t leave his head. His stomach coils. It feels like something terrible is about to happen. Someone is going to get hurt, and it’s going to be his fault.

“Baby.” Anna’s footsteps approach them. Her shoes sound soft. Those impractical thin ones women sometimes like to wear. He tries to focus on the sound to get his mind off the thoughts. It doesn’t work. “Honey. You’re doing a wonderful job. I’m sorry if I let you think me and your father were anything but proud of you. We’re so proud of the both of you. You look out for each-other. You both do so much to help others. You’re selfless and kind, and everything I hoped you’d turn out to be.” Fabric against fabric as she hugs Foggy. Her other hand rests against Matt’s head. “I’m so so proud of the both of you.”

It’s a long moment of slight hitches in their breath as they try not to cry. Finally Anna steps away.

“Matty, how are you doing?” Less upset in Foggy’s voice. “Nice slow breaths buddy. Try to match mine.”

With hesitation Matt shows Foggy the card again. His chest hurts. His hand shakes.

Foggy sighs. Brushes a hand over Matt’s hair.

“I got it.” Bucky’s uneven footsteps move closer. “You two take a break. Sounds like you have some things to talk about anyway.”

Foggy’s arm gives him a final squeeze before his footsteps move away. Anna’s hands stroke his hair. She presses a firm kiss to his forehead before her footsteps follow Foggy.

The hammock lurches again. Bucky sitting down. “Gonna tell me what you’re thinking pal?”

Matt’s body wavers. With the buzzing dizziness going on between his ears, it’s hard to keep track of where his body is in respect to everything else. He shows Bucky the ‘safe’ card.

“Everyone’s safe pal.” The words help, but the ‘danger’ ‘something bad is going to happen’ feelings swallow the relief in seconds. “Can you tell me why you’re worried about everyone?”

He can. There are words in the PECS book that can help explain, but his hand is all tingling and his fingers can’t feel enough of the braille to tell which cards are which. Pushing the book away, he rubs at his chest.

“OK pal. Just nod if I’m right. You’re freaked out about the message, and now you think everyone’s in danger. That about sum it up?”

Matt leans back against the hammock, nods. He takes a breath, but the air feels like needles.

“Deep breath. Focus on counting them like I told you.” Soft fleece is placed near his left hand. The fleece blanket. “Right, I’m going to take you through the security measures we have in place. We’ll start with the tower. Jarvis, can you give us the spiel you give me when I’m worried about security? The detailed one. Forget the visual elements, and maybe up your descriptions to make up for it. A few infiltrator scenarios might help too.”

“As you wish Sergent Barnes,” Jarvis says. “Mr Murdock. I’ll begin by describing the surveillance systems…”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! Spoilers for the Harry Potter series mentioned. Natasha has strong feelings about Harry Potter.

For the first time in two nights Matt wakes for a different reason than a nightmare.

A noise near his bedroom door. Hushed breathing. He scrambles up against the pillows, making Lucky shift sleepily.

“Sorry.” Bucky’s voice. Thick with sadness. Lots of wet. Some strain in there too. “Sorry pal. It’s just me. I wanted - I’m sorry.” Movement of hair as he shakes his head. “Had a bad dream and I just-” A harsh sigh. “Never mind. Go back to sleep. I’m being creepy watching you like that.”

Fear sweat clings to Bucky. That’s wrong. He’s not supposed to smell afraid. Matt shakes his head, gestures for Bucky to come further into the room. Hopefully there’s enough light coming from outside his room to see it.

The mattress shifts as Bucky perches on the edge. “I get these nightmares sometimes about before. When I was nothing but the Winter Soldier. Always get more of them when Steve goes away on a long mission. And I just wanted to see you. To settle myself. Didn’t mean to wake you.” He chuckles. It’s not a happy sound. “Didn’t think how creepy I was being, watching you sleep.”

Matt shakes his head. Bucky was scared, and somehow watching him made him feel better. That’s fine, it’s a lot better than Bucky staying scared.

The gesture must help because the mattress shifts as Bucky settles more onto it. It’s a big bed, so there’s still a lot of space between them.

Matt offers him a pillow from the stack behind him.

Bucky takes it with a muttered thanks. Shifting of the mattress as he settles down. His breath keeps catching in his throat like he wants to say something.

Matt’s satchel is somewhere by the side of his bed. He leans over the side, searches for it, places it between him and Bucky, then pushes it closer to the other man.

“Think I can find the words pal,” Bucky says, his voice still too strained and wet. “But thanks.”

There’s a long moment of Bucky’s breath catching and Lucky’s soft snores before Bucky speaks.

“I just want to know what you think of me,” Bucky says finally. “How you see me.”

Matt waves his hand in front of his eyes.

“Very punny.” Sarcasm chases some of the wet from his voice. The satchel is pushed towards Matt. “Enough with the blind jokes.”

Matt digs out the PECS book, ignoring the small computer. He thinks carefully about what Bucky needs to hear as he makes the sentence strip. ‘Bucky.’ ‘Friend.’ ‘Good.’ All of those are true. He hesitates before adding a last square. It’s not something he’d usually say, but it is true, and he thinks Bucky needs to hear it. ‘Safe.’ He hands the strip to Bucky.

Bucky’s breath gets a little choked before most of the wet clears up. “Thanks Matt. Thanks. Hey, do you mind if I take a picture of this? To remember.”

Matt shakes his head.

“It’s hard to remember sometimes,” Bucky says later after he’s fetched his phone and taken the photograph. He perches on the very edge of the mattress. “That I’m not that thing. That I was never really that thing. To make me do what they wanted, they had to stamp down everything that made me me. And I still managed to fight it sometimes. Not always, but sometimes, when they made me kill kids or something. But sometimes I didn’t fight it. I didn’t even see why I would want to. Then I have a nightmare, and I’m back there. I take orders without thinking. I don’t feel anything about what I’m doing. And it’s hard to remember that here and now I have a choice. I can choose who I become. You being here helps me remember that.”

***

Natasha flops gracefully on the couch beside him. The croak in her voice is almost gone. “You’re frustrated. Need help?”

He is frustrated. Fiona set homework in her last session. They’d gone over the ten most common cognitive distortions, and it turns out he shows signs of almost all of them. They’d managed to pinpoint some of his negative thoughts - which was difficult because he hadn’t even noticed them before, and when he did he thought of them as normal thoughts. She’d walked him through working out which cognitive distortion was behind each thought (some thoughts can have more than one distortion), and how to reframe it into a more balanced thought.

She’d asked him to try reframing one thought they’d identified before their session tomorrow. They’ll talk through his attempt then, and work more on identifying negative thoughts and recording them, which he still has a lot of difficulty with.

The thought is: ‘If I can’t get the coffee and cookies perfectly without acting on my anxiety, I’m a failure.’

Matt hesitates, then shows the sheet of paper to Natasha. It’s in ink as well as braille so someone can help him with it. Part of him feels like he’s giving up by allowing her to help, but that’s the point of this, isn’t it? He feels that way because he thinks he’ll be a failure unless he does this task perfectly on his own. That’s an ‘All or Nothing’ cognitive distortion just like the other thought. At least he’s getting the basic idea behind negative thought patterns.

A grimace in Natasha’s voice. “All or Nothing. That one’s my worst.”

Fiona says it’s a big problem for Matt too. All or Nothing means that if he finishes a task perfectly he feels like a success. If it’s a tiny fraction below perfect he feels like a total failure. There’s nothing in between. She says it’s an unhealthy thinking style because it breeds depression when he doesn’t live up to the unrealistic standards, and anxiety when he’s about to enter a situation he knows he’s likely not to be perfect at.

Part of him wants to argue that he just has high standards. He’s needed them. His father was always disappointed if he scored anything other than full marks on a test. He was always saying he needed to work harder, and do better. Stick never accepted anything less than perfection. And afterwards he’d needed to do so much better than anyone else just to get any teacher to take the blind kid seriously. But another part of him knows it’s not normal to hide under his covers for half a day because he only scored an A minus, and it’s not normal to hurt himself over not succeeding at a task.

This is what therapy is about, right? Fixing the parts of him that are wrong, even if some of them date back to before the rape. Fiona said tackling these thoughts didn’t mean he couldn’t still hold himself to a high standard, just that he didn’t need to feel so bad the times that he didn’t quite measure up to that standard.

Natasha helps him through it. He gets the feeling that she has enough experience that she could reframe the negative thought into a balanced one in seconds, but she lets him work through the steps. It’s one of the most difficult things he’s ever done, and he passed the bar.

‘Is there any evidence that contradicts this thought?’ He can’t think of any. Natasha helps by listing some of the successes he’s had. It’s hard to remember them among all the failures. He’s graduated law school, he’s run a law firm, he’s won several cases, he put Fisk away, he’s mastered several martial arts, he’s saved lives. He lists them on the small computer, hating every touch of the keys. If he’s a failure, she points out, then he’s also a success, so the answer has to be somewhere in between.

‘What would you say to a friend who had this thought in a similar situation?’ Natasha rephrases it as ‘If Foggy went through a trauma and thought he was a failure because the trauma made him too anxious to complete a task, what would you say to him?’

That one’s easy, because it’s Foggy. He’s allowed to be human. He’d say that it’s OK. That Foggy’s done a lot of great things and is such a great person. He’s in no way a failure. And just because he finds something difficult now doesn’t mean he will do later. Like Corporate Law. Foggy can afford to take the time he needs to get better.

‘What are the costs and benefits of thinking that way?’ There are no benefits. Natasha agrees with him on that. There are a lot of costs. He gets anxious. Natasha points out that the anxiety caused by the thought is probably adding to the social anxiety and making it worse. By stressing so much about doing perfectly, he’s actually decreasing his performance. Matt hadn’t thought of it like that before.

‘How will you feel about this in six months time?’ That question they have to skip over. The idea of there even being a six months time sounds foreign and strange. Intellectually he knows there will be, but he can’t picture anything about it. A future further away than the next week makes his mind stall.

‘Is there another way to think about this situation?’ Yes, there must be, but he can’t think of any. Natasha points him back to the question he’d answered about what he’d say if it was Foggy in his place. That helps, but the idea of applying those allowances to himself is odd.

They piece together the balanced and cheesy sounding thought.

‘I want to complete this task perfectly, but I’m human and perfect may be too high a standard. My trauma may make even completing this task competently difficult for a while. Instead of measuring myself by this external standard, I should be proud of incremental progress.’

Matt makes a face.

“I know it’s cheesy, but it does work.” A smile in Natasha’s voice. “Add this as well: ‘And I should judge my self worth by my values such as my desire to keep trying, rather than my performance.’ That’s a big thing in all this. Trust me. I’ve been working on this negative thought pattern forever. Comes from being raised in an environment where your options are do this or die.”

Matt types it in the document, feeling a little stunned.

“Hey.” She pokes his arm. “We’ve all got issues to work through. Try using this when you go to get my coffee later. Barnes is going to enter his exam soon. I’m about to text him a string of cheerleading smiley faces. Want me to say it’s from you as well?”

Matt nods. Bucky and Lucky are away taking an Introduction to Computer Science exam. Apparently he started an undergraduate degree majoring in Mechanical Engineering, minoring in Computer Science at Columbia a couple of months ago. He said it was between them or NYU since both were good with his accommodations, but NYU didn’t offer the minor he wanted.

He does most of it distance so he doesn’t need to leave the tower. A tutor comes to help him with lab work. But occasionally he still needs to travel to sit an exam.

It’s pretty neat that Bucky Barnes goes to the same university Matt and Foggy did.

“I’ve got an idea,” Natasha says once she stops tapping at her phone. “Come with me.”

***

“This is Nick.” A smack as something falls against the floor of the boxing ring. The ropes move as Natasha ducks through them. “We rescued him from Tony’s lab. I think he was going to blow him up or something. He’s got full joint movements, so we mostly use him for practising dangerous locks. He’s here to help you show me what you can do.”

Matt shuffles in the ring, feeling self conscious.

Natasha’s footsteps move towards him, confident. “I know there are some things you can’t do yet. Your right arm is out of play, and your ribs are still healing. Clint says that physio routine you’re sticking to is helping your shoulder. It shouldn’t affect the rest of your upper body so much. You’ve been limping, so I’m guessing you also have some kind of hip or leg injury you’re trying to hide.”

Matt blushes, twisting his hoodie in his fingers.

“Hip injury,” Natasha says, voice softer. “I’ll take it into account. All right. Warm up and we’ll get started.”

Natasha seems surprised by how many moves he knows by name. Some of them hurt his ribs. He tries to hide it, but since she doesn’t ask him to do those again she must notice. They stick mostly to boxing, muay thai, ishin ryu karate, kung fu, capoeira, hapkido, judo, wrestling, wing chun, trapping, silat, and kali where he has the most expertise. Some of them he's mastered. Others he just knows some moves from.

His boxing and similar moves have good form. She tells him so. But some of his more martial arts related moves are slightly out. It makes sense. The last formal training he received was when Stick left. Electra preferred to spar instead of coach. He’s grown a lot since Stick left, so some of those moves might be off. And he’s learnt other moves since then, mostly from books.

His super-senses include acute balance and awareness of his body, so he’s able to make each move effective, but Natasha says with perfect form they’ll be even more effective. They use the ‘Nick’ dummy which is amazingly lifelike for him to practice the moves. The dummy is also good at posing some of the positions he’s getting wrong, so he can trace and copy them instead of Natasha touching him.

It’s good to be doing this again. He should get back into the routine. There was a long time when he couldn’t do any of them. But if he takes them slow he could do some of them every day. He could ask Bucky if there’s time in his routine for that. Perhaps while he usually messes about in the Nerf gun room. Every morning after reading the things he needs to remember, running with Bucky, the first of three physio sessions, shower, breakfast, he and someone else go over his routine for the day. It’s a recent thing, but it helps. It’s good to know what’s happening and who is expected to be around the tower when.

Steve had done it with him the last couple of days. It’s still annoying to have support with something as simple as that. It’s not like most of his activities change every day. But Steve had shown him why by letting him try filling out a schedule for the day, then patiently showing him how unrealistic it was. Matt didn’t leave enough space between activities for change, and with his mood swings he needs a lot of that. He added unrealistic activities, too many activities, and forgot about rest times completely. So he’ll need help with his schedule until he gets the hang of that.

He can feel the improvement every time he perfects a move. Often he only needs to tweak his form by millimetres. He’s rarely far off. But those millimetres make his blows stronger, his holds harder to get out of, and his movements smoother. It’s good. He’s learning a lot fast. He can hardly wait until his other wounds are healed enough for Natasha to help him with all his other moves. He’ll be at least twice as formidable as he was before.

That good feeling starts to shatter when he finds himself repeating a move for the fifth time and still not getting it right.

“Again,” Natasha says, voice firm. “Keep your hand angled like I showed you.”

Matt tries the move again.

“Almost. You’re still shifting at the last moment. Try again.”

It’s been ‘almost’ since the first time he tried it. He steps towards Nick, then away, tensing his jaw.

“Matt.” Sound of hair moving as Natasha tilts her head. “Try it again.”

He can’t do it. He keeps trying, but he can’t get it right. Sighing, he moves back to Nick, tries again.

“Deep breath.” Exaggerated breathing as Natasha demonstrates. “Then try again.”

Matt pushes away Nick, slams his fist into the floor of the boxing ring instead. His heart beats too fast and only part of that is the exercise. He makes a frustrated noise. He can’t do this. He can’t do it!

Shifting of fabric as Natasha crouches down. “You’re thinking this failure makes you a failure.”

Matt blinks.

“That because you couldn’t master this the first seven times you’ll never be able to do it. This is where theory turns into practice Matt. You know it’s a negative thinking pattern?”

Matt wipes the sweat off his face. Nods.

“Then reframe that thought. Nod when you’ve done it.” Natasha doesn’t even shift, like she could crouch there waiting all day.

It’s a task more terrible than trying the move again. He sits down fully on the ground, bringing up a knee to rest his head on. He’s not getting the move, so he thinks he can’t do it. That’s the negative thought. He feels like a failure. All or Nothing thinking. So he needs to reframe that into something more balanced. He takes it through the steps and slowly, painfully pieces something together.

‘I want to get the move right, but it won’t affect my value as a person if I don’t.’ Stick shouts in his head about that. It takes a very long time to get him to shut up. ‘I should judge my self worth by my desire to keep trying rather than my performance.’ He raises his head towards Natasha, nods.

A smile in her voice. “I’ll get Nick to model the hand position. You feel it, then try again. I’m betting it’ll take you around fifteen more tries to get it. Want to find out how close my guess is?”

It’s a challenge. A challenge phrased to remind him that he’s not a failure if he doesn’t beat that number, but it’s still a challenge. He gives a savage smile, nods.

He gets the move right after ten tries.

***

‘They left him on a doorstep,” Matt types, sitting cross legged beside Natasha in the middle of the boxing ring. Slowly drying sweat clings to him. His muscles burn. He kind of smells. And he hasn’t felt so great in a long time. ‘No one checked up on him in all the years he was there, and they had magic. They knew he was living in a broom closet and they did nothing. Wizarding social services is shit.’

Natasha hums in agreement. She’s sitting, leaning back on her hands. Every now and then he hears them shift. “I think the whole wizard system in Harry Potter was flawed. That’s not a criticism of the book, it’s just a really bad system. I mean what kid knows enough to choose their entire life path at eleven? I was a completely different person at eleven. What were you like at eleven?”

He tilts his head, thinking. ‘Very angry. Very lost.’

“And then you get sorted, and that’s it. You’re labelled for the rest of your life. If you’re in Slytherin you’re evil. Gryffindor, then you have to be a hero. Ravenclaw and you have to be cleverer than everyone else. Hufflepuff and you’re stupid.”

Matt huffs.

“I know, but you’re proving my point. You are Hufflepuff. You’re loyal and selfless, but you’re smart, and brave as well. I’m Slytherin, but I’m not completely evil.” Movement of hair as she tilts her head. “Maybe a little evil. I’m cunning and determined, but I also play the hero, not the villain. But no matter what complex layered person you are, your head is going to be completely twisted by years of people assuming they know you.”

Natasha has a good point. She’s also a lot more fanatic about Harry Potter than he’d expected.

“And Dumbledore was kind of a jerk.”

He raises his eyebrows in question.

Shifting as she sits up. “He psychologically manipulated Harry into sacrificing himself. He couldn’t know Voldemort would use Harry’s blood and inadvertently create the circumstance that would allow Harry to survive. So he fully intended to raise him up, then send him to his death. Not to mention I have a hard time believing that he knew nothing about all the kids under his care being pressured to join an evil murderous cult. You would’ve thought he would’ve done something about that.”

Huh. She makes a good point. ‘And the health and safely.’

Hair moving as she nods vigorously. “The whole school would be shut down if they had any kind of inspection similar to what we have, if the inspector survived. Kids died at that school. There’s a tree that beats people up. And they build the whole thing next to a forest full of monsters. Real smart. Are they aiming for most deaths in a year award or something?”

The elevator doors whoosh open. Uneven footsteps and padding paws walk out.

Matt pushes himself to his feet, the small computer falling to the floor. He rushes to the ropes, leaning over them. Smiles. There’s a warmth in his chest that hasn’t faded since a couple hours into his session with Natasha. It’s nice to do something that makes him feel powerful for a change instead of helpless. “Bucky.”

Bucky’s uneven footsteps stop a couple of metres short of the ring. His heart jumps. Shocked breathing.

Matt blinks, confused. What’s wrong with Bucky?

A click. Natasha takes a photograph? Laughter in her voice. “Barnes, you look like a proud papa whose kid just said their first word. Hey Matt, I caught your voice on here. How do you feel about me sending it to the others?”

Matt’s good mood drops away. He leans against the ropes heavily. A video. He doesn’t feel as anxious about photographs and videos as he did, but there’s still some anxiety there. More than that, he doesn’t want to make decisions on something he still has such a hard time thinking clearly about.

“Decisions?” Natasha asks quietly.

Matt nods, rubbing his fingers over the ropes.

“I’ll send it to Foggy to approve.” Tapping against glass as she presumably does that. “I think it’s too personal for tumblr, so if he gives the go ahead I’ll send it to Bruce. He’s the only one out there who’ll let the others coo over it, and refuse to share it no matter how much they beg. Because you know if Tony gets hold of it it’ll end up on all his websites tagged with ‘puppy speaks’ or something equally ridiculous.”

Bucky snorts. “Got that right. But - uh - could I have it as well? Promise to keep it away from Tony.”

“On it’s way to you now Papa Bear.” The ropes move against him as Natasha climbs through them. “How did your exam go?”

“OK I think. I hope. I mean, I studied the material inside out, so it should be fine.” Bucky sighs. “It’s just so different. The kids there look so normal. At least when I had to sit an exam for my GED everyone was all different ages and backgrounds. Now they’re all clean cut, young, and naive. Feels like I don’t fit in.”

Matt sits down on the edge of the boxing ring. Reaches down to let the sniffing Lucky lick his hand.

Flesh against flesh. Natasha shoves Bucky. “Hey, you fit in with us. Doesn’t he Matt?”

Matt nods, finding a smile again.

A smile in Bucky’s voice. “I’ll take it.”

***

“Sure you don’t want a nap?”

Why does Bucky have to call it a nap? He’s not two years old, even if he gets the feeling he acts like it sometimes. Matt shakes his head, continues fiddling with the newspaper strips. They’d done their usual punching after fetching coffee, then Matt had decided to rip up newspaper. Not so much for the release this time. More for the pleasant quietness in his head that comes from ripping up strip after strip of paper.

He’d done better this time, freshly showered and loose limbed from his session with Natasha. He’d repeated the reframed balanced thought in his head. Told himself again and again that it wouldn’t make him a failure if he didn’t make it. All he needed to do was try. Stick’s voice argued against that in his head, telling him that if he held himself to such pansy standards he’d do even worse. He’d been repeating the balanced thought so loud to try and drown it out, that he barely noticed how far he’d moved until he was at the counter.

He’d still flinched closer to Bucky when Stacy talked. His ears still drifted to the other people in the room too much. He still trembled. Bucky still had to be the one to give Stacy the list.

His mind wanted to beat himself up for all those things. It managed to do so quite a few times before he realised he was getting into a negative pattern. A little flapping of his hand on the way back to the gym, the punching bag, and reminding himself again and again that it’s progress that’s the important thing, and whether he keeps trying, not some external standard. It all helped, and now he’s mostly even with a little prickle of anxiety every now and again, wondering whether anyone saw him and what they thought.

He’d made progress. That’s good. That’s what Bucky keeps reminding him.

“OK pal.” Shifting of the large couch as Bucky leans back on it. He sighs. Bucky’s been sighing a lot recently.

Matt raises his eyebrows in question. Makes an OK sign.

“Yeah. I just.” Flesh against wood as Bucky puts his feet on the coffee table. “I guess part of it’s Steve being gone. The other part is that was my first exam I took on an actual university campus. It didn’t feel real to me before. Now it does. I know you went to law school and all that, but me, I never had that chance. Don’t think it’s in any of the history books, but I actually liked school. In a different world I would’ve gone to University, or at least tried to. But there was the war, y’know. It was expected. And before that, I had to work.

“I never got to finish high school. Kinda ironic that I joined up while Steve was stuck at home studying art. I never liked fighting like Steve did. I mean, I’d do my duty, and fight like hell to protect my men, and I loved messing around, sparring as much as the next kid. Boxing with Steve was always fun, though I’m never sure if that trait came from me or him. You grow up with someone, your interests kind of leech into each other. I loved boxing, dancing, maths, science. Loved science so much it hurt to think I’d never be able to build robots or visit space, or whatever else I wanted to do as a kid. Steve loved picking fights, standing up for everyone, drawing. He liked math as far as it let him master perspectives. Science I think he liked, but maybe that was only that he needed to to keep up with me sometimes. I’d play space explorer. He’d defend the planets I found from hostiles. I didn’t have a choice back when I was Bucky Barnes. I had no choices as the Winter Soldier. So it’s weird to think that I have a choice now. That I’m actually doing this.”

Matt stops rolling the newspaper strips into beads for a bracelet, holds what he has together with a foot, then pulls the small computer out of his satchel. ‘What are you going to do with it when you graduate?’

“Do some kind of masters I think. Something with robotics maybe, or artificial intelligence. I don’t know.” Fabric moving as Bucky shrugs. “I just want to build things that will help people. Maybe even artificial organs, health systems, or nanotec. Tony says he’s going to line up some work experience over my breaks so I can get a better idea.”

Matt leans back against the couch. ‘Are you going to fight again?’

“Maybe. I mean, I don’t think I’m quite there yet, but maybe at some point.” Bucky’s voice turns softer. “Only for the first time in my life I don’t have to. And you know, if I’m never ready that doesn’t make me less of a person. I’ve got people who’ll love me whether I fight or not. You do too if it comes to that.”

Matt frowns.

“Just think about it pal. OK?” Shifting as Bucky sits up on the couch. “You want to fight again when you’re ready, we’ll stand behind you. You don’t want to, we’ll stand behind you. I think that decision’s a while off, and you know that, but when you make it, know that you’ve got us in your corner. Got it?”

***

Foggy comes back from meeting with Marci, Jessica, and Karen in time to have a late lunch. He sits at the dining table eating the last of the macaroni cheese, and Matt sits next to him with a piece of cinnamon roll and tells him about a case he consulted on.

Sometimes Matt’s voice drops to a mumble and Foggy has to remind him that not everyone has super-hearing. Sometimes it takes him a whole five minutes to stammer out a single sentence, but Foggy tells him not to sweat it, to take a deep breath and try again. Sometimes most infuriatingly the words choke off completely, and the only thing he can do is rest his head on his arm, take several slow breaths, and listen to Foggy instead while waiting to see if the words come back. It’s far from perfect, but he talks.

And Bucky is still in the room.

“I got a text message full of smiley faces that said you made it to the counter today,” Foggy says in one of Matt’s extended silences. A smile in his voice. “I’m giving you the biggest grin right now Murdock. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

Matt raises his head from his arm. “I’m - I’m trying to be.”

Foggy hums consideringly. “Guess that’s all I can expect right now. Just know that everyone else is definitely proud of you.” Guilt creeps into his voice. “And I know that for certain since I may have told Karen, Marci, Jessica, Luke, Claire, my Mom, the pizza guy, a cat…”

Matt narrows his eyes, listening carefully. “One of those is a lie.”

“Got me. I didn’t tell the pizza guy about you battling your anxiety demon. I told him that today was brilliant because my friend is awesome. I think his exact words were ‘kudos dude. Can I get a tip?’” A pause. “I did however tell the cat everything. I think his meow sounded genuinely impressed.”

“Foggy.” Matt shakes his head, not sure whether to be amused or mortified. “Luke, Marci, Jessica? Why?”

“Sorry if that was wrong,” Foggy says, a more sober note in his voice. “They were all right there when I got the text and I had to explain the stupid grin on my face somehow. And these people are invested in you Matt. Jessica might not be the warm fluffy type, but since 90 percent of Karen’s job is forcing her to eat and sleep because she’s working so hard on your case, she cares a lot. Marci talks a lot of shit, but if anyone dares talk shit about you she rips them apart. I have some expensive scotch from her by the way. And Luke is so quiet that half the time I forget he’s there. Which for such a huge guy is a neat trick. Sometimes the only time I hear him talk in hours is to ask how you are. He sent some of Ed’s chocolate fudge cake by the way. The cat I have no excuse for. It was just there, and watching me with its cute face.”

“It’s OK,” Matt says finally. He thinks it’s OK. “Weird, but OK. Just don’t make a habit of it I guess.” A pause. “The cat might spread it around.” The idea of the Avengers, Karen, and Claire knowing he’s struggling with such simple things is fine. Good even, because then they can know that he’s making progress, that he’s heading somewhere that’s not this low. But the world doesn’t need to know that his successes have been reduced to something a small child could do.

No. That’s measuring himself by an external standard. It’s still so difficult to see that as a bad thing.

“Sure. I was caught off guard, and really happy for you man.” Shifting of the chair as Foggy reaches across the table. Dragging of ceramic on wood as he pulls the pecan pie closer to himself. “Next time I’ll be more vague.Or pre-plan some cover story. I’m so happy because my cat had kittens or something.”

Matt smiles. “You’re really obsessed by cats today.”

“It was a really cute cat Matt,” Foggy says through a mouthful of pecan pie. “I am secure enough in my masculinity to admit that some things in life are adorable and must be worshipped accordingly. Don’t pretend you’re unaffected. I’ve seen the way you fuss over Lucky.”

Lucky sits attentive by Matt’s side, heart jumping every time he moves his spoon to scoop up more cinnamon roll.

Matt tries for a casual shrug. “He’s OK.”

“Sure buddy. I suppose his hugs are just OK too?”

“He’s an assistance dog. The hugs provide valuable assistance.” He’s only half joking.

“Fine Murdock. Keep telling yourself you haven’t been bowled over by his doggy charm.” Foggy pushes away the presumably empty container of pecan pie. “Hey, any of those chocolates left.”

“Loads. Above the fridge.” There’s also some more hidden in the large air-vent above the dining table, but Matt assumes whoever put those up there doesn’t want anyone to know about them.

“Score!”

***

“Hey kids, just checking in,” Tony’s voice says from Jarvis’s speaker system. “Wait. Are you playing Jenga?”

“Another thing Murdock is brilliant at,” Foggy says bitterly, sitting across the coffee table from Matt, next to Natasha. He lost the last round and is currently still pretending to be a sore loser.

Matt pokes his tongue out at him. His ears let him hear the subtle vibrations running through each brick. It’s easy to pinpoint the ones to push out that won’t effect the rest of the structure.

“How are things going?” Heart-rate too fast. Strain in Bucky’s voice. Anxious.

“Little things keep disappearing into the ground the moment we find them.” Frustration in Tony’s voice. “My tech managed to stop some of them, but they’re slippery bastards.”

“They’ve cleaned out about half the banks.” Sam’s voice.

Clint sounding proud. “But we snuck a tracker into their last haul.”

“So we have their location.” Steve. “That’s where we’re heading. We just wanted to check on you first. See how you were doing.”

Tony scoffs. “More like check whether you got any leads on that message yet.”

“Office guy came up clean.” Wood against wood as Natasha slides a brick loose from the Jenga tower. “Phone was untraceable. No prints on the letter he received. It’s all a dead end apart from motive.”

Sam’s voice sounds dark. “Not many people would gain from Matt backing out.”

Matt swallows heavily. Lucky crawls closer, nudging his side. He strokes his head. There are exactly six people who would directly benefit from Matt dropping the charges. Even if he did, it’s not a guarantee that the investigation against them would stop. They have the video. That’s huge evidence, although Matt still doesn’t know if it’s enough to identify them. But even if they could prove their identities from the video, winning a rape case without a cooperating victim is extremely unlikely.

“Yeah.” Foggy’s voice. “Jessica’s close to something with that. Which is good, because from what she and Brett have been able to find out, the police still aren’t moving their asses.”

_The slam of flesh against wood. Wright placing his hands on the table. "Knock this joke of a case off Murdock. No one's going to lock those guys away. You're the one who attacked them. You deserved it."_

Matt flinches, raises three fingers.

Sam doesn’t miss a beat. “Hey, are those roses around the table?”

“Murdock made them.” A smile in Natasha’s voice. “Out of newspaper strips.”

“I have a bracelet too.” Papery sound against fabric as Foggy waves the arm with the newspaper bracelet in the air.

“Aw…” Clint whines. “No fair. I want one.”

Matt reaches back for the small computer. Types “OK.” A British accent reads it out to the room. Foggy had changed it from the robotic female version, scrolling through many voice samples and giggling before choosing one based on some actor’s voice. Charlie Cox or something.

Clint squeals so high pitched Matt covers one ear with his hand and presses the other into his knee. “Really? Really? You’ll make me a bracelet?”

Matt nods, not uncovering his ears.

A second excited sound from Clint suddenly turns muffled. Someone covering his mouth?

“OK kids. Exchange friendship bracelets later. I expect one too Murdock,” Tony says rapidly. “We need to go save the world. Or a City. Whatever. I refuse to lose to robots designed to look like moles. Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Like that narrows down our choices any,” Natasha says, voice deadpan.

“Oh ha ha.” Tony’s voice fades like he’s walking away.

“Tony’s readings say this is definitely where their orders are coming from, so we should wrap this up soon.” Calm in Steve’s voice. “If all goes well we’ll be back in a couple days at most. Call you once it’s over. Expect an update by morning.” A pause. More warmth in his voice. “And Matt, Bucky told me you’ve been helping him. Thank you.”

Matt flushes, not sure what to say to that.

“Buck. We’ll celebrate your exam when I get back. Spend some time at the rescue centre.” A smile in Steve’s voice. “Unless you’ve moved on from playing with puppies?”

Bucky’s muscles relax at Matt’s side. “You’re a punk.”

“Jerk.”

***

“Matt. I need you to wake up.”

Matt springs upright in his bed, already reaching towards Bucky’s voice. Bucky moves away, uneven footsteps pacing, pacing like he can’t stop. He sounds terrible. The smell of salt in the air. A mix of tears and sweat. Fear too. A lot of fear.

“Steve’s missing. He’s missing. Clint too.” Bucky’s feet pace around the bed, from one wall to the bedroom door and back. “It wasn’t Hydra. Someone took their technology to make the robots. Terrorists. They think they’re linked to Pakistan groups maybe. They’re not sure. It’s all fucked up!”

Lucky presses close to his side, like he’s trying to drown out his instincts to help Bucky by getting closer to Matt instead. Matt clicks his fingers to get Bucky’s attention, then mimes taking a deep breath.

“Right. Yeah.” The mattress dips as Bucky sits on it. The sound of him taking slow measured breaths. “The banks. That was just a way to get money out of the situation. The real goal was destruction. They stole an earthquake machine. New Delhi is a high risk for big earthquakes. If it executed like they planned, at least 80 percent of it would be gone. Tony managed to stop it, but not before it sent out a small pulse. It’s not as bad as it could’ve been, but buildings are collapsed. People are dead. And whatever that pulse was short-circuited their GPS and coms, because they can’t locate Steve or Clint anywhere. They think they’re buried somewhere.”

It’s a lot to take in. Steve is in danger, possibly worse, and Clint… Matt stayed up late finishing rolling the newspaper strips into beads for his and Tony’s bracelets the night before. He doesn’t want either of them to be hurt.

“Tony’s suit was damaged. He’s flying in something to replace it. He can use his tech to help find heat signatures and help rescue efforts, but there are limits, and a lot of ground to cover. He happened to mention what you can do in a video conference with the president of India. One thing led to another, and India’s president asked our President to allow you to help rescue efforts for the first few days. And well, I guess no judge is going to turn down an order from the President, so you’ve got permission to go if you think you’re ready.” Movement of hair as he shakes his head. “I know it’s too much to ask. I mean up until recently you were - you know. I won’t force you to go, but if you do decide to, I’ll be with you every step of the way. Natasha too. We can take Lucky. And you do have the option of taking xanax full time for a short period if you want to. And - Christ - I’m really trying not to force you into anything Matt.”

Decisions. His stomach seizes. At least this one isn’t just about him. That makes it easier. His senses are more acute than search dogs, and he’ll be able to give more detail. How deep the person is. A rough estimate of how injured they are. He can help. The first few days are critical. His senses could locate more people early enough to save them. He can even help guide extraction.

He helps, or he doesn’t help. That’s what it comes down to.

He nods. Of course he’s going to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is roughly the design of Matt's bracelets: http://www.instructables.com/id/Make-a-RECYCLED-PAPER-BEAD-Bracelet/


	27. Chapter 27

Natasha leans her head against his shoulder as they wait for Foggy to finish talking to Bucky.

Matt can’t pinpoint a time when it went from her coming back from the cockpit and sitting on the narrow metal bench beside him, to pressing against his side and leaning against him. One minute she was sitting. The next she’s leaning on him, the change too gradual to register.

Foggy stands on the roof of the Avengers tower, just outside the ramp of the small jet. “I’ve packed his migraine tablets too. He gets them maybe a couple times a year? Depends how things are going for him. So he probably won’t need them, but I know that if I don’t pack them he’ll definitely have one. He has weird luck like that. You have to bully him into taking them. And do not take your eyes off him until they conk him out. Else he’ll start feeling a little better and decide to do something stupid like the time he went to the roof when he was too drugged to walk and gave me a heart attack. Oh and I packed a few of his dinosaurs.”

“He always this overprotective?” Natasha whispers.

Matt rocks his hand from side to side in a ‘kind of’ motion.

Natasha hums. “I think it’s cute.”

“I packed Cera the Triceratops because that’s his favourite dinosaur. Then I remembered Spike the Stegosaurus is his favourite to fiddle with, so I put him in as well. Then I realised both of those have like really pointy spikes and maybe he shouldn’t have them in his anxious moods, so I put in Little Foot as well. He’s got his mp3 with his audio-books and music. Boxing mitts and wrappings. A fleece blanket. One of the weighted blankets. And be careful of that bag, it’s got some packaged meals for him, cookies, chocolates, fudge cake, the scotch Marci bought him. So, squishable breakable stuff. Damn, I forgot a first aid kid. Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Several.” Calm in Bucky’s voice. Not calm in Bucky’s heart. “And we’re going to New Delhi, not the middle of nowhere. There’ll be plenty of stuff there. He’ll be fine. If he isn’t I’ll keep him in the hotel room with his headphones and xanax. We can even send him back if it’s all too much. I’ve got him Foggy.”

“Yeah. I know.” Skin against skin as Foggy rubs his face. “I’m turning into my Mom. Just update me, OK. And not just about Matt. About everyone. I’m worried too.”

A crisp movement by Bucky’s head. Matt frowns.

“Bucky just saluted me Matt,” Foggy calls from the bottom of the ramp. “I’ve been saluted by Bucky Barnes. Wish I could go with you buddy. The one time my Punjabi could come in handy.”

“The main language is Hindi,” Natasha calls back. “And most people speak English anyway.”

“Sure assassin lady, shoot down my witty comment.” A wide movement from Foggy. “I’m waving enthusiastically by the way. Go save Captain America.”

***

Hot humid air smacks him in the face as the ramp of the jet lowers. Sound hits him a moment later, and he’s glad he listened to Bucky and wore his headphones. People cheering, shouting, pleading. It’s loud even with the headphones. The voices tumble into each other creating a roaring storm that pushes at him.

Natasha’s footsteps click beside him and Bucky. “We have an exit. Right there behind the Chief Minister. Her men will keep the crowd back.”

“OK pal. It’s not a straight path, but metal barriers and officers will keep the crowd back. The Avengers are pretty popular over here. Black Widow is a real hit among women and younger generations, so Jarvis warned us this could happen. They know we’re here to help, and some of them will have missing relatives, so they’re desperate. Natasha’s going to make sure everyone knows to keep away from us, and I’m going to lead you to the car. It’s about twenty metres. We got this. Ready?”

He’s not, but he nods anyway.

Matt keeps his hand gripped tight around Bucky’s elbow. Lucky stays close to his right side. Natasha walks ahead of them. He hears her say something about luggage.

By the time they reach the bottom of the ramp Matt’s world is composed only of his too fast breathing, Bucky’s elbow, and a wall of sound crushing him from either side. There are words among the cheering. He picks out a few of the English ones. “Black Widow” comes up a lot. The occasional “Natasha.” And intermingled in all that is “find my daughter,” “bring the terrorist scum to justice,” “please, my grandmother.”

Keep on walking. Keep on walking. Bucky’s elbow moves when they need to make a turn. It’s a zig zag pattern, he realises only after several turns. His breath keeps choking in his throat. His head pounds from the heat and sound.

They turn a corner tighter than he expects. Bucky’s elbow slips from his grip.

He freezes. He can’t move forward because he can’t see anything. The path is an odd shape. The cheering and shouts are everywhere. If he moves he might walk into them. Then there’ll be people. Maybe they’ll find him pathetic. Laugh at him.

He’s lost in the abyss for only a second before Bucky’s hand finds him again. It feels like forever. It rests on his arm for a moment before it slings over his shoulders, drawing him close. Matt’s trembling despite the xanax he took before they landed.

“Come on pal,” Bucky whispers against his head. “Two metres to go. Walk with me.”

He walks somehow. Someone’s replaced his knees with jelly, and they threaten to give with every step. Bucky’s arm around him makes the people on either side feel further away. Two metres until they reach an exit Matt can’t sense. There’s the taste of hot sun against tarmac, but he can already tell that from the scuff of tarmac against his shoes. Jet fuel in the air along with the lighter smell of normal gasoline. The smells are everywhere so he can’t tell if one of them is the vehicle Tony is waiting for them in.

He has to trust Bucky.

Natasha’s voice. “Not going to happen Chief Minister. I’ll smile and take as many pictures with you as you want. But he needs to go to the hotel now.”

Then there’s the sound of an engine. Finally over the roar of the crowd. The click as a door opens. Bucky’s arm falls from his shoulders as he moves in front of him, but his hand doesn’t let go of his. Then there’s tugging and “Step up” and Natasha’s hand guiding his head through the doorway. The door slams shut behind him.

Quiet, Bucky’s hand on his arm, too fast breathing, Lucky nudging him.

The world doesn’t smell right. It doesn’t feel right. The air is too hot. It holds too many scents he’s not used to. His skin prickles under his hoodie. Natasha had said he might want to wear something lighter, but his hoodie is thick and warm and comfortable. It blocks the outside world from his skin in a way thinner fabrics can’t.

He’s never been outside New York, and he didn’t realise how much he used the conditions there as his baseline. Sure, he always gets a little disorientated when the seasons change, but this is that times a thousand. He can’t feel the heat from the bodies around him, because everything here is hot. So many of the scents are unknown to him. The air is thick and painful, and it’s difficult to interpret the movement of it against his skin.

Somehow he’s growling out his frustrations against Bucky’s shoulder, heavy arms wrapped around him, not sure how he got in that position. It’s good though. Like hiding. Bucky’s arms block out more of the world than they should be able to. That strong heartbeat thuds through him. And Bucky’s tank top - he thinks it’s a tank top - still smells a little of the tower.

It’s only when Bucky shifts closer that Matt realises he’s still shaking. “This is a heck of a step up from Stacy Tony.”

“Yeah,” Tony’s voice sighs from the front of the car. “I know.”

***

“Tony tried to keep the time and place of your arrival secret,” Sam says later when they’re in the hotel room. Apparently the Chief Minister set them up at their most expensive intact hotel close to the wreckage with a suite for each of them. They’d decided it didn’t make sense to have so much space when there were so many without homes, so they’d moved to the smallest suite and pressured the hotel into letting some of the newly homeless stay in the others. “But with the Internet and all the hype about the Avengers helping it was impossible. Added to that, we think one of the Chief Minister’s people might’ve leaked it. They’re spreading a lot of media about getting in every resource to help. Tony did some digging. They received some terrorist threats before all this that look linked. A couple among hundreds, so it’s not surprising they ignored them, but we think they’re trying to drum up some good press in case it leaks out.”

Matt lies on the only bed in the suite, trying to get used to focusing his ears by listening to the conversation in the other room, and not everything going on in the floors above and below him. The xanax helped. The panic attack didn’t last long before leeching away, leaving him shaky and exhausted.

The room isn’t much bigger than the giant bed. And he definitely means giant. His silk sheets don’t quite cover all of it. Every one of the Avengers could fit in it with some disregard for personal space. But that would probably end in Matt punching someone, so there’s been vague talk about Matt, Bucky, and Natasha taking the bed, and Tony, Bruce, and Sam taking the couches in the living room.

Matt blinks in and out of consciousness, curled towards the edge of the mattress so he can better hear Lucky’s breathing sighing up at him from the floor.

“He can do this.” Natasha’s voice. Confident. “I know he can.”

“I’m not disputing that,” Sam says evenly. “I’m sure that Matt in his best state of mind could do this. But I’m not sure he is in that state of mind. And I’m not sure either one of you is able to make that call. You both have the lives of someone you love at stake. You’re just as desperate as those people out there.”

“Clint would never forgive me if I chose him over Matt,” Natasha says. “If it comes down to that, I’ll pull Matt out myself. But he can do this. This whole situation. Helping people. There’s nothing in that he’s scared of. It’s the people. We keep the people away then he’ll be able to do it.”

“I care about Steve,” Bucky says quietly. “But I care about Matt too. I’m planning on doing my best to look out for both of them.”

***

Matt takes his headphones off.

There’s rubble beneath his feet. Lucky leaning against his legs. Thin cotton covering his arms and legs. It itches, despite someone clearly searching hard for the softest clothing. Sunglasses, a baseball cap, and insect repellent that’s doing a good job of repelling him as well. The air is still too thick, but this time it’s a little easier to breathe and read the scents carried on it.

Sound.

Shouting. Laughing. Crying. The barks of dogs. The whir of machinery. It’s a lot.

“Matt.” Bucky’s voice. It doesn’t sound like it’s the first time he’s said it. “Matt.” More resigned this time. “It’s OK. We can go back to the hotel.”

Matt takes a deep breath, then another. The air is too hot and it tastes wrong, but it helps. He shakes his head, concentrating.

There. Light breathing coming from below the rubble several metres to his right. Grabbing Bucky’s wrist, he tugs him towards it.

***

They made Matt a promise before they left the hotel room. The promise was that Matt wouldn’t have to communicate with or go close to anyone he didn’t want to. People might speak, but Matt can ignore them. They don’t matter. The only people who matter are Bucky, the Avengers, and the people under the rubble.

Every minute the promise is kept he feels better.

Tony was given a section to scan, the rescue workers search another with their dogs. Because Matt is one person on foot (not flying around in a suit like Tony) he’s given the smallest section. He finishes about the same time Tony finishes his, then moves onto the rescue worker’s section as they aren’t close to being done. Tony heads to another section being searched by a smaller rescue team.

Matt settles into a routine. They walk up and down each part of the section. It’s usually smell that draws him to a spot first. Fear sweat. Sometimes blood. Occasionally he hears them first. Shouting, or just breathing. When he gets closer he can hear their heart. That tiny hopeful sound reminds him better than anything else why he’s doing this.

He walks around the perimeter carefully, and finds where it’s safe to step, and where too much pressure might bring more rubble down on the person underneath. Natasha follows his steps, hanging tape around to keep others away. Then he uses the small computer to type how many heartbeats, whether he thinks they’re hurt, how deep, and what the structures around them are like. The rescue workers will do their own scan when they come, but it will save them time and make sure they have the right equipment for a more precarious extraction.

He sends the information to Bucky, who enters it into a database he’s making. It flags up which cases the rescue workers should respond to fastest. Then Natasha marks the area with a flag, writing the number from Bucky’s database on it. She tells him the flags are different colours. Black for dead bodies. Orange for if he’s not sure if they’re dead or alive (which happens rarely, when he can smell someone but their heartbeat is too far away or covered in layers of metal.) Red if there’s definitely someone alive who needs rescuing. White if the person who needs rescuing is dying or badly hurt.

He can tread lightly when he’s concentrating on mapping out perimeters, his ears focused on the ground beneath him. But when he’s walking around searching for the next person who needs help, he can’t stay focused on that and where he’s going. There’s too much rubble for a cane to be much use, so Bucky or Natasha guides him where he needs to go.

It’s a good system. The act of doing something to help others is so consuming, that he forgets about his anxiety.

The sun gets steadily cooler until Natasha remarks how dark it’s getting. They finish the second section and move to help one of the extraction teams.

Natasha guides Matt around the site while they set up the machines. Then they sit to the side. It’s not a site he’s analysed before, so Matt has several details about the number of victims, their condition, and the condition of the materials around them that their scanners hadn’t picked up on.

Matt wants to head to another section. There’s still miles to cover. At this rate, even with Matt and the other’s help it’s going to take over three days to cover it all. In this heat three days is a very long time.

Natasha says they have to go to a briefing first. We need to keep everyone informed, she says. It’ll help it all go faster.

Matt sulks, but lets himself be led in the direction of a cleared road. Behind him he hears one word from the extraction crew among all the others “Daredevil.” There’s laughter. Matt flinches closer to Bucky’s side.

***

The briefing is a meal. Of course it is.

They sit on the floor of a tent, voices all around them. Some of it’s in English. Some of it isn’t. People ask about missing loved ones. Others are homeless and trying to find a place to stay.

Natasha pokes him in his side whenever he drifts away while he’s supposed to be eating. It happens a lot. Tony seems to know every dish spread out between them, and suggests several he thinks Matt might like, piling them onto his plate, and doing the same for a sleepy sounding Bruce.

They do talk about what they’ve done, and what they plan to do next, but most of it is spent in an exhausted silence.

When Natasha finally lets him stop eating Matt remembers to dig into his satchel, taking out one of the bracelets he made. Little beads of rolled up strips of newspaper, glued tight, coated with clear nail varnish to make them waterproof, then threaded. He tosses it in front of Tony.

“Whaz ‘at?” Bruce mumbles sleepily.

“That Brucie is my friendship bracelet.” Scrape of coated paper against skin. Tony puts it on? “You didn’t ask for one, so you don’t get one.”

“Clint asked for one,” Sam says softly.

Matt takes the other bracelet out of the satchel to show them. Hesitates, then puts it down in front of him to take out the plastic Pteranodon as well. He places it next to the bracelet. His hand finds the small computer. It reads his words aloud in that British accent. “So he doesn’t annoy Bucky by trying to make one of the dinosaurs fly again.”

“I’ll still get annoyed if he gives it air-plane noises,” Bucky says gruffly, but his heart beats lie.

“Hey.” Sam shifts. “I haven’t heard this story.”

Bucky launches into what is more a rant than a story, about how useless Clint was at playing dinosaurs, and how Bucky, Steve, and Karen had to set him right for the good of the universe. His words carry the same annoyed big brother attitude he usually shows towards Clint, but there’s an extra layer of emotion that makes him sound a little choked.

They shift onto other topics. Tony wants the team to take a vacation after all this is done. There’s an isolated place in the Catskills they use for training sometimes. It’s still in New York State, so there’s no problem with Matt going. “Think we could all use a break from people,” Tony adds. “Not just Murdock.”

A smile in Natasha’s voice. “Vacation just means you’re going to lock yourself away somewhere different to build the same crazy stuff.”

“Well duh.”

Matt stifles a yawn.

“We should head back to the hotel,” Sam says. “Catch a few hours before we start again.”

Matt shakes his head. Each hour that passes means less chance of survival to the people trapped. There are people dying right now. They need him.

“OK Matt.” A note of something deceptive in Bucky’s voice. “We’ll wait for Bruce to finish eating, then decide what to do. That fine with you?”

Matt slumps his shoulders, then nods. He wants to be out searching now.

Natasha starts another topic. About the fashions she’s seen, and how she wants to go shopping before they go back. Tony joins in, making recommendations, and then they seem to be making plans for a day out. New clothes, manicures, and some kind of spa treatment. Matt’s not sure. Bucky’s arm edges over his shoulders, and his mind goes all warm, fuzzy, and comfortable despite the hard ground and too many noises and smells around him.

Before he realises what’s happening, he’s asleep.

***

Bucky is sneaky.

Matt thinks about this as he rushes through the quickest shower in the world, grabs some kind of nasty tasting leftovers for breakfast, takes the coffee Natasha offers him, and burns his tongue drinking it as he waits for Bucky to wake up. Well, he tries to wait before giving up, retreating to the other side of the bed and throwing Foggy’s softball at Bucky’s back. He would just hit him, but he is a ex assassin with a stupidly strong arm. Come to think of it, throwing things at him while he’s sleeping probably isn’t a good idea either.

Bucky yelps. Scuffling, then an undignified thud as he falls off the bed. Only after all that is there smooth trained movement and tense muscles as he stands up. Then his muscles relax. “Matt?”

Matt glares as best as he can in his direction.

“Is this about the hugging? ‘Cause I know I can get a little clingy sometimes.”

Well, Matt sleep clings. Bucky more sleep death hugs with a little bit of snuggling. Which had been an interesting thing to find out when he woke up, but no, that’s not what this is about. He shakes his head.

Bucky sighs. “It was like three hours Matt. You need to get some sleep. I’m not letting you work yourself towards another episode over this.”

Matt walks around the bed and pushes Bucky towards coffee.

***

The next two days go much the same.

Matt spends most of his time looking for people buried. Occasionally he helps with the excavation. He doesn’t like it when he works with the rescue teams, although most of the time they’re good at ignoring him, and polite when they don’t. Sometimes though he’ll hear words and laughter. Half the time it’s probably not connected to him, but it’s hard to tell his brain that, and sometimes he’ll hear enough to know it’s definitely about him.

There are a few bad moments. A series of flashbacks caused by an overheard comment that leads to a panic attack that leads to more muttered comments, that leads to more flashbacks. He’d done pretty well not taking a xanax since the jet, but he has to take one then.

Overall when he has to excavate he prefers working with Hulk. They make a good team. Matt can tell from the vibrations which parts can be moved that won’t cause a collapse. When a piece needs to be steadied. It’s like a giant game of Jenga.

Hulk can be gentle when he’s reminded to be. And he seems to be a little hypersensitive, though not to the degree Matt is. They develop a system of Matt’s hand on his arm, guiding him through the movements. Sometimes Matt will even climb onto his shoulder with Hulk’s help and direct him from there, though he prefers to be on the ground where he can feel the vibrations better.

It’s nice, even if Hulk insists on calling Matt ‘Little Devil’ no matter how much he huffs about it.

Tony said with a smirk in his voice that Hulk called him Tin Man. Then he’d paused and added “which might actually be more insulting now I think of it.”

Hulk snorted and said “puny Tin Man.”

“Worse,” Tony said. “Definitely worse.”

It went OK. The work was consuming. Matt wrapped himself up in it, and Natasha and Bucky reminded him to eat and drink, apply more insect repellent, even do his physio exercises. Hulk joined the mother hen brigade, once going as far as to pick him up and set him down three times when he tried to walk away to get out of eating. He also got in the habit of perching him on his shoulder when walking between extraction sites, which was a pretty comfy rest spot. Even more comfy when Tony found Clint’s harness and Matt didn’t have to hold on anymore.

He may have fallen asleep a few times. He’s not admitting it.

So Matt’s feeling both desperate and optimistic when he arrives at the last section to search on the forth day. Four days is a long time. That’s what everyone says. When you get onto the fourth day your chance of finding someone alive is nearly zero. But this is Steve and Clint, and this is the last section. They have to be here.

A chunk of his optimism drowns in dread when he realises the reporters are there too.

***

There’ve been reporters before. Some of them talking right inside the rescue zones. There are miles to cover. It’s not like they can keep everyone out. But most of them speak a language that Matt doesn’t know. He’d occasionally hear Daredevil or even Murdock among the other things said, but it wasn’t so bad when he didn’t understand the rest.

Now he understands every word.

“The Avengers rescue effort is joined by Matt Murdock, also known as the vigilante Daredevil. Most of our viewers will recognise Mr Murdock from the recent scandal…”

Really? Getting raped is a scandal now? And that whole thing about this being an Avengers rescue effort rubs him the wrong way. The Avengers are helping, but it’s still the very competent New Delhi and surrounding areas providing the rescue teams that do the bulk of the work.

He shakes the words off. Some are easier than others.

There are at least three distinct groups of reporters skulking about speaking English. One woman catches his attention by saying the words “brutally raped” with a kind of avid excitement. And all his hard won calm drops away making him feel weak kneed and panicked. And no. No. There’s a faint heartbeat in the rubble below him. He and Hulk are trying to get the person out before the heart disappears completely.

He shakes his head, whining. He fucking needs to concentrate.

“Matt?” Bucky’s voice asks from the sidelines where he waits to see if they need his metal arm. “You OK?”

He might be. He’s already slipping his hand into the pocket of his light trousers. Gripping Petrie the Pteranodon’s wing and counting his breaths. Part of him wishes Lucky were here, but he’d left him in the hotel room due to the heat.

That might be the end of it. He’s getting good at grounding himself. It’s only words from a person he doesn’t know. She doesn’t matter. But she keeps talking. “And we can see that Mr Murdock appears distressed. Given his out of control behaviour in New York City reportedly caused by his PTSD I question the appropriateness of him being in such a delicate environment. He appears to be aiding the Hulk in an excavation which is a very dangerous procedure that might be best left to those more stable…”

They’re watching him right now. They have a video camera on him, and are broadcasting his image to God knows where. He sinks to a crouch, tries to breathe. He can’t hear the faint heartbeat over the pounding in his ears. He needs to do this. There’s a life at stake.

A second news crew notices the movement. They’re nicer than the woman who thinks he’s dangerous. Nice to the point of pitying. It’s a simpering voice who explains to the humming camera that “People working with the rescue efforts have disclosed that Mr Murdock still suffers extreme panic attacks, relies on medication, and is very skittish and totally mute. They also told us that he’s a great aid to the rescue efforts and one of the main reasons so many people have been excavated already. With his conditions it’s nothing short of a miracle. Let’s move the camera over here to give him some privacy.”

Hulk’s voice is a low growl. “Camera lady made Little Devil sad. Hulk smash?”

Matt presses one hand against his ear, the other against his knees. The headphones are in the satchel, but he doesn’t want to use them. If he does he’s not sure he’ll be able to bring himself to take them off again. Two warm hands appear on either side of his head. Too big to be anyone but Hulk’s. They help, and when Bucky’s hand appears on his back that helps too.

He crawls his way back to normal breathing, concentrating on their heartbeats. It takes a while. He shakes his head when they ask if he wants a xanax. He can get this back in control before a xanax would kick in.

By the time he’s shakily downed some water and started guiding Hulk again, Tony lands a safe distance away from the excavation zone. Clicking as the suit unfolds itself from Tony and moves to the ground. Inside a suitcase maybe? Lighter footsteps move towards them. “Hey friends and neighbours. The scan is complete. Only two sites to worry about after this one. Sam is quartering one off now. The other isn’t far from here. How long until you finish excavating this one?”

Matt hops up onto Hulk’s arm. Leaps across to perch on the other arm without touching the ground. He communicates with their made up signals drawn on Hulk’s skin. Manoeuvres the second arm into place. There. He points up and Hulk lifts with a grunt. The wall holds together like he knew it would, coming up in one giant piece with the rubble on top of it. Hulk tosses it to the side.

“Whoa. I see her!” Tony shouts loud enough for the waiting paramedics to hear. “That quick huh?”

Matt drops to the ground, leaning on Hulk’s arm. He’s not as shaky as before, but he is exhausted. Two sites left. Tony has no way of knowing if one of them is Steve or Clint. Or maybe Steve and Clint are in one of the other sites someone else checked instead of Matt. That’s unlikely now that most have been excavated, but it might be possible. More likely is that Steve and Clint are in one of the many dead body sites that haven’t been excavated yet. He shakes the thought out of this head. He doesn’t want to think about that.

“I think me and Bucky need to go smash,” Natasha says evenly. “But we’ll join you when we’re finished.”

A smile in Hulk’s voice. “Smash.”

“Not you Big Green.” Scraping of metal across rubble. Tony picks up the suitcase? “We’ve got heroing to do. Pick up your puppy and let’s go.”

Matt’s not sure how this is his life when Hulk doesn’t hesitate before scooping him up and placing him in the harness behind his head.

***

He’s dozing when he hears it. Off-key singing.

Perking up, he listens carefully. Something else. Footsteps. The third group of reporters. They’re talking. Saying things like “get that camera up here, we need to get a good shot.” Grunting. “Do you have any idea how much this thing weighs?”

Crunching. Matt’s out of the harness and leaping to the ground by the time he hears the crunching. That crunching is stone against stone. Squealing of metal. A sudden gasp of breath from far below. Crash. Tearing. Wet sound. Pained noise.

“Holy shit did the ground just move?”

Tony’s voice behind him. “Kid! Bad puppy! Don’t make me run.”

“Fuck! I think that’s Daredevil!” “Get the camera running.” “Right. Shit. Right.” Whirring sound. “Mr Murdock are you available for a few questions?” Their feet move. The ground crunches. They’re standing right over where the singing came from.

Clint. And that pained noise - Steve.

Matt gives a wide gesture, trying to tell them to move backwards. His mouth opens, but no words come out. Not even a noise comes out. His heart clenches so tight it’s nothing but a ball of pain. Words. He needs his words.

“Only a few questions,” the man says, talking fast. His feet don’t move. “Perhaps you could tell us about your role here?”

His feet move so close the ground creaks. No. He jumps backwards. Makes that gesture again, more desperate this time. He shouts the words in his head, but they don’t leave his mouth. “Leave! Stop! Get the fuck away! Stop hurting him! Stop hurting him!”

A different more unsure voice. “I think he wants us to leave.” The first voice painted with false confidence. “Mr Murdock. Some say you’re a hero, some say you’re a criminal. What do you say?”

Matt crouches, feels for a fist sized piece of rubble, throws it. They shriek as it sails past them.

“I uh think he answered your question.” “Mr Murdock!” They aren’t moving except for a violent shift that vibrates through the rubble to his feet.

No. He picks up another rock. This one hits the camera with a satisfying crack.

More shrieks. Shifting of rubble as they move backwards a few steps.

Matt picks up a third rock, draws his arm back in warning.

More scuffling. This time they finally scurry backwards away from the loosely packed rubble. Good.

“Down puppy!” Confusion in Tony’s voice.

“He’s crazy!” The man who asked the questions shouts.

“And you’re a blood sucking parasite. We all have our quirks. Get the fuck out of here, and yes you can quote me on that!”

The feet scurry off, voices still muttering insults. Matt drops the rock.

“I don’t know whether to high five you or sit you on the naughty step.” Movement as Tony shakes his head. “I should’ve gone to more parenting classes. Are we done with the freak out or should I pull up a piece of building?”

Matt crouches, placing his hand on the ground. The rubble underneath has stopped shifting, but there’s still Steve’s pained sounds. Some of them sound wet. Blood in his lungs? All that rubble moving did some damage. A noise half way between a growl and a whine leaves his throat.

Steve’s in pain. Steve’s hurt, and he hasn’t heard Clint since the singing. He needs to focus. He needs to tell Tony. He needs to speak. His mind spirals around and around. It’s dizzying. He can’t figure out how to do any of it. He slams a fist into his skull, trying to get his stupid panicking brain to start working again.

Fabric shifting as Tony crouches down. Nerves in his voice. “I think Hulk is better at this than me. I’m tempted to ask you if Timmy fell down a well.”

The words catch in his mind, stall his panicking brain just a little. Yes. He nods his head rapidly.

Tony’s heart skips. Surprise. “Wait. Timmy did fall down a well?”

He nods again. Close enough. And there’s something really simple that he should’ve thought to do before. He points at the area the reporters were standing on.

“Oh crap. This is the other site, isn’t it? I didn’t recognise the scenery of rubble and more rubble.” Movement as Tony stands up. Clicking of metal over his head. Not over the rest of his body. Putting on the helmet? Humming of electricity as it activates. “The readings are different than before.” A pause. “Those fuck-heads collapsed it, didn’t they?”

Matt rubs his hand over his hair. Tries to get his breathing under control. It’s difficult. The words Steve is hurt, Steve is hurt, repeat over and over. And Clint. What happened to him? He still can’t focus enough to pick up more than the occasional pained sound from Steve. Is Clint even still alive?

“I should’ve joined you throwing rocks at them. Good puppy.” A click. Activating his coms? “Robocop I’m a crap babysitter. Murdock needs one of his chill pills. Stat.”

He can’t focus enough to hear Bucky’s reply. His heart pulses with pain. It feels like he’s dying.

Uneven footsteps. Bucky’s arms around him, lifting him up. Somehow he’d collapsed forward into the rubble. His limbs are rubbery and uncooperative. Bucky guides the pill to his mouth, then helps him swallow some water. It’s a miracle it goes down the right way with all the gasping he’s doing. “Breathe Matt. Just breathe. I know this fucking sucks, but it’ll be over soon. It’s just a panic attack.”

Tony’s voice. “I don’t have Murdock’s senses. All I know is there’s a heat signature down there. Pockets of air too, but not as many as before.”

Bucky’s arms tighten around them. “You think it’s one of them?”

“No clue. We didn’t get to have that conversation.”

Bucky sighs. It sounds tense. “I can’t ask him that. I won’t be able to stay calm and ask him that.”

“OK. Crap. You had to mention this before Miss Super Interrogator got here.” Fabric moving. Tony crouches down in front of him. “I am so getting a number one benefactor mug out of this. OK puppy. Murdock. Is Steve down there?”

Everything hurts. The air in his lungs feels like fire. He manages to nod.

Bucky’s arms slip away from him. Uneven footsteps move towards where the Hulk waits, grumbling with worry.

“Whoa puppy.” Tony’s hands clasp his shoulders before he can tilt too far sideways. “Don’t bite me, OK. Or throw rocks or whatever. Just me, Tony. The guy who buys your food. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you or however that goes. And I’m supposed to be asking you questions right now. Is Clint down there too?”

Matt nods. He tries to slow his gasps of air, but it doesn’t work.

“Yay, but also not yay from your reaction. How are they? Are they hurt?”

Matt nods. Tears prick at his eyes.

“OK. Jarvis, we need paramedics on standby.” Tony’s hands squeeze his shoulders. “Hey, I’m not so bad at this parenting thing. And to think, Mrs whatever her name at the class said I was the worst student she’d ever had. OK. Nice deep breaths. I always like picturing a beach when I do that, but I’m not sure that’ll help with you. Next question.” His voice lowers. “Are they both still alive?”

He doesn’t know. Steve is. He can hear him. But he can’t hear Clint. If he could focus he could hear their heartbeats and know, but he can’t. He tries and tries to hear Clint, but he can’t.

Tony’s heart speeds up, beating through the hands on his shoulders. “Is one of them dead?” His voice shakes.

He doesn’t know. The answer is not a shake, and it’s not a nod. He can’t remember how else to answer. His heart hurts. His breath comes too fast. His body is a mass of numbness and tingling. And he can’t hear Clint.

Light footsteps. Familiar. A hand with Natasha’s heartbeat on his cheek. “Breathe. You’re trying to focus, right?”

A nod. He knows how to nod.

“Matt, you can’t brute force your way out of a panic attack. This isn’t the movies. Forget about them for now. I know it’s difficult but you need to focus on your breathing. Nothing else exists. Just breathe nice and slow. In and out. With me. Come on. Breathe in.”

He breathes in. Loses it part way through.

“And out.”

He tries.

“Keep breathing with me. Let the xanax kick in and do its job.”

He concentrates on his breathing for he doesn’t know how long. Tries to ignore the noises Steve makes. It’s impossible, but he tries. Gradually his breathing becomes easier. His heart slows. Without him winding himself up the xanax kicks in faster, letting the panic drift away.

He hears it. Steve’s heartbeat. Below that Clint’s. And next to that a smaller heartbeat. All slower than they should be, but all alive. He breathes out a sob.

Natasha’s voice, slow and even. “Is one of them dead.”

He gives a fragile feeling smile. Shakes his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From what I've read about the latest Chief Minister of New Delhi, he seems like a pretty cool dude. Since the Chief Minister of New Delhi in my story is not always a cool dude (or dudette in this case) I've taken a few steps to show they are not in any way the same person (by changing their gender), and would like to state here that they're in no way the same person or similar.


	28. Chapter 28

Matt coordinates the whole thing.

He clambers over Hulk, shows him where to lift. Hops down next to Bucky, does the same with him. Tony left to help Sam with the other site. Whoever is trapped there may not be one of theirs, but they still need help. Paramedics wait. They’ve been briefed that there’s three people alive in here. Steve who’s hurt, Clint who doesn’t sound badly hurt at least, and a younger heartbeat. A child. There’s blood in Steve’s lungs. Bucky had to sit down when he heard that. Other than that and the smell of blood, Matt’s not sure how he’s injured.

Matt clears some of the smaller pieces himself. He can lift them with his left hand. Can awkwardly cradle the larger ones to his stomach with both hands as long as he doesn’t have to move or put weight on his right hand. The ground is difficult. Multiple air pockets and lots of unstable rubble around them. It won’t need much to cause another collapse.

They’ve managed to create an opening into one of the air pockets. Matt sits down by it, takes off his satchel and places it behind him. Takes Petrie out of his pocket and sets it on top of it. He doesn’t want to lose him down there.

“Matt.” Bucky sounds torn.

Matt flashes him an OK sign. They haven’t talked about this, but they all know how unstable it is down there. Matt’s the only one who knows where to tread. Anyone else could cause another collapse.

A moments thought and he places his sunglasses, cap, and shoes on the satchel as well. The less things he has to drop and catch on things the better, and without his shoes he’ll be able to pick up even more of the vibrations.

He crawls feet first through the opening, carefully testing out each step as he goes. It’s a little awkward with only one arm, but he makes it work. The air currents close around him as he lowers himself down. The smell of dust, damp, and blood. Maybe two metres of loose rubble underneath him, and having to be careful of every movement, then the ground is slightly more solid. The space is wide enough to crouch easily. His feet don’t send vibrations up the walls like before.

Heartbeats a little in front of him. The sound of Steve’s wet breathing, more exhausted than pained now.

Matt shifts towards him. A pile of rubble underneath him that doesn’t match with the space he was just in. The walls are closer here. Oh. He thinks he understands. His fingers brush over Steve’s shoulder, find rubble on his back, all around him. This whole section caved in, right on top of them. The other two heartbeats come from under Steve. He shielded them with his body.

No response from Steve. A lot of rubble. It covers most of his back, and plies around him up to his stomach in places.

Matt removes the rubble from his side carefully. As long as he doesn’t go too close to the walls either side of Steve he won’t cause another cave in. He stacks them in a part of the air pocket out of the way. Bucky and Natasha will be getting worried. He should’ve brought the small computer, but there was no way to safely carry it through the unstable passage.

With the rubble out of the way, Matt reaches underneath Steve to run his fingers over Clint and the child. Clint is curled on his side, an arm over the child. He’s not awake, but the child is. Matt runs a hand over the child’s hair, but their heart stays fast with fear. They don’t move. Weak from thirst and hunger, Matt guesses. They’re young. Maybe about four.

Steve is unconscious too, arms locked in place. He runs gentle fingers over the rubble on his back, removes the smaller pieces that are safe to move. There’s one large piece that Matt won’t be able to move. He traces it. It smells weird. Metallic as well as stone. He understands when his fingers find something thick and metal poking out of Steve’s chest. The large stone has a metal rebar in it. It’s gone right through Steve. He hopes it’s only in one place. He can’t safely reach to check Steve’s other side. The arm he can reach seems whole. He loses Steve’s lower legs under a wall of rubble. Probably broken.

Broken ribs. His fingers can feel at least some of them. Steve’s pelvis is broken in more places than he cares to think about. It’s bad.

‘Stay unconscious’ he mentally projects to Steve. If he wakes up it could get worse. He’s close to a lot of unstable rubble. Whole walls of it could collapse on him if he tries to move.

Clint seems OK. He can only feel parts of him. Head, arm, parts of his torso and legs. Hopefully he’s unconscious more from dehydration than anything else.

Matt carefully scoops the child from under Clint’s arm. They’re weak and floppy, but still manage to struggle against his hold before he’s moved far. Soft noises of protest leave their mouth. It sounds like - it is “Clint.” “Clint.”

Matt sits on the stable ground in the pocket of air, before the gradual slope that leads to fresher air and paramedics. They can’t hear him up there, and Steve and Clint’s hearts are still unconscious. He cradles the child in his lap. “Hey. Hey. You’re OK.”

“Want Clint,” the child slurs with an Indian accent.

“I know.” Matt tries to make his voice soft and nonthreatening. “My name’s Matt. What’s yours?”

“Mohammed.” A boy then?

“Hi Mohammed.” He strokes the child’s hair. It’s thick with dust. “Have you heard of the Black Widow?”

“Clint’s friend.” Mohammed sounds a little more awake. “Mama likes her.”

“She’s waiting up there for you to meet her. You want to meet her?”

“Yeah.” He sounds awed by the idea. “Can she help me find Mama?”

“You can ask her. I’ll take you there. But you have to hold onto my neck and not move, OK?”

Movement. A nod?

He lifts the child to his chest, and little arms wrap tight around his neck.

***

It takes longer than he’d like to get Steve and Clint to safety.

The area is so unstable that they end up using Tony and Bruce’s reinforcement tents. You set one up over the person, and then you can dig them out as sloppily as you like. Any cave in will fall on the tent which can hold a good ton of weight.

Clint is easy. Matt safely manoeuvres him from under Steve, drags him to a clear part of the air pocket, then sets the tent over him. It’s not like he can drag him up the two metres of slope without guaranteeing a cave in.

Steve is more difficult. First he clears all the rubble but the big one off his back. Then he splints his arms in place to keep him on his hands and knees. It doesn’t hurt to be cautious. He leans under Steve, clearing rubble carefully from his other side. Then his front, making gaps on either side. He doesn’t need much to set up the tent. It is adjustable. But it needs some space to close around him safely.

Steve’s legs are the hardest part. They’re covered in rubble. Matt removes what he can, then uses every physics trick up his sleeve to get rid of the rest. He digs out part of the wall and stages a careful cave in designed to only move some of the rubble from around Steve. Then uses leverage to get rid of the last larger pieces.

Steve’s legs are raw and bloody. No spurting arteries. There’s that.

He sets up the tent around Steve, checks he’s tucked in tight, then makes his way up to the now cool night air.

Bucky folds him into a hug as soon as he emerges. The man shakes, probably worrying about the hours Matt spent down there, despite their cobbled system of tapping via radio (the phone signal hadn’t worked), to let them know he was fine.

It’s Matt’s turn to reassure him by patting him on the arm and giving him a thumbs up. It’s ready. Time for Hulk to go to work.

It’s the one time Hulk doesn’t like destroying something. He makes unhappy noises every time there’s a crunch, crush of another cave in. Not even Tony’s reassurances that Steve and Clint are safe seem to reach him. But he does his job. He scoops out the rubble and tosses it to the side.

Natasha crouches next to Matt. Sloshing and plastic as she wordlessly hands him a water bottle. He drinks, waiting like everyone else.

“I see one of them,” Tony says, voice tense. “Keep going Big Green. Almost there.”

More crunch, movement of rubble. Less clattering rubble. There isn’t as much left to collapse.

“Got them,” Sam breathes. He raises his voice to a shout. To the paramedics? “You guys are up!”

Lots of scrambling footsteps on loose rubble. Clicking as the tents are taken down. Everyone’s hearts speed up when they see Steve, but Bucky’s heart skyrockets. Uneven footsteps run down the slope. Fast movement as Natasha follows him.

The paramedics take a long time stabilising Steve. The team around Clint work quicker. Steve’s heart-rate stays unconscious which Matt is happy about, but Clint’s jolts awake the moment he’s set on the plastic backboard.

“Whutz ‘appening?”

Sam’s voice murmurs reassurances along with the paramedics.

Matt hesitates long enough that he has to hurry to catch up. Sam murmurs something he doesn’t catch and the two men carrying the stretcher stop.

Fear rises its head again when he’s close, because strangers are right there, and Clint needs to go to the hospital. Matt’s holding them up.

Sam’s voice. Soft. “It’s OK Matt.”

“Matt?” Clint’s voice chirps, sounding so happy despite the slurring and how sore his throat sounds. It’s that as much as Sam’s reassurance that makes his feet move the rest of the way to Clint’s side.

Matt holds the object in the air in front of Clint’s face. The bracelet with the newspaper beads.

A pause. Then a giant grin in Clint’s voice. “Fer me?”

Matt finds Clint’s hand, carefully threads the bracelet around his wrist.

Papery sounds as Clint lifts his arm enough to see it. “I gotta bracelet,” he says, sounding like it’s made of solid gold instead of newspaper.

Matt takes Petrie from his weaker hand, flies him across Clint’s vision slowly to demonstrate, then places him on the man’s chest.

“Matt wanted to find you one to borrow that can fly,” Sam interprets. “So you don’t annoy Bucky.”

“Itz so cool,” Clint slurs. Skin against plastic as he clumsily pats it. “Itz dinosaur.”

Matt makes a note to tell him it’s actually a Pterosaur, before he annoys Bucky with that as well. But that should probably wait until after he’s not out of his mind with dehydration. He pats Clint’s arm instead, then backs away.

“I’ll send updates when I can,” Sam says as his footsteps follow the paramedics.

Matt nods.

“Sam. Sam.” Clint says in that drunk sandpaper voice. “Matty made me a bracelet! Itz beautiful!”

***

“Matty? You awake?”

He is now. He rolls over onto his back against the pile of pillows. Makes a questioning sound.

Bucky breathes. It sounds wet. His heartbeat beats too fast beside Matt, closer to the middle of the bed. Sitting he thinks. Natasha’s heart beats from the other side of the large bed. Slow, but not slow enough for sleep.

Bucky had gone to the hospital with Steve. He and Sam hadn’t been back by the time Natasha, Tony, and Hulk helped Matt back to the hotel. There were other people to help. More sites that hadn’t been extracted yet. But there had been a comment a couple of hours into it. Two members of the crew they were helping whispering ‘Daredevil’ and laughing while making movements he couldn’t interpret, but could guess from the sound effects were sexual.

It hadn’t gone unpunished. An angry voice started shouting in Hindi almost immediately. Natasha led him away and made him sit. Hulk stopped his extraction to roar, before resuming with furious grunts. When the man under the rubble was free Hulk had sat between Matt and the men, huffing warningly at anyone who got too close.

Matt hadn’t had a panic attack. His breath barely sped up. He just sat, all the energy from guiding Hulk through the extractions gone. Everything switched off. Leaving him with nothing in his head but tingling numbness and feeling like every part of his body weighed a ton.

He sat and sat and sat until the voices around him finally stopped talking to him, and Hulk scooped him up.

The heaviness is still here now, but not so bad. He turns his face towards Bucky, waiting. He wants to know how Steve is. He’d been in surgery on their last update.

“He’s OK,” Bucky breathes out finally. “He shouldn’t be. Fucking shattered pelvis. Broken everything. Giant hole through his lung. They’ve got him on a ventilator. But he’s already healing. Think he’ll be fit to transport late tomorrow, or I guess it’s tonight now. He’s OK. They’re both OK.” Wet. A lot of wet. Strangled sound. Smell of salt.

Bucky’s crying.

Matt springs up, hooking a hand around the back of his neck faster than is probably wise or polite.

Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. He wraps his arms around Matt with a tightness he only uses when he’s unconscious. There’s a desperateness to the hug that reminds him of the way Anna clung to him, like she was afraid he’d disappear. His voice is choked. A hint of laughter too. “Would’ve thought I’d be used to him almost dying, the amount of shit-shows that dumbass throws himself into. You know they decided to go help those people, during a fucking earthquake, with their coms out so they couldn’t tell anyone where they were? Fucking dumbasses.”

How long had he been holding all this emotion in? It hits Matt for the first time just how difficult this whole situation must’ve been for Bucky. Not only his friends being in danger and worrying about them. But the fact that Bucky Barnes was a soldier, and the Winter Soldier was a mindless soldier.

Bucky pulls away. Wet fading from his voice to be replaced by concern. “You alright? Tony said you dissociated earlier.”

Matt shrugs his shoulder. How much self control must it have taken for Bucky to not go full speed ahead? To stop searching in order to look after Matt. To make sure he slept, ate, read the book of things he needs to remember, did his physio.

Bucky’s hands weigh heavy on his shoulders, the one on his right shoulder so carefully placed to not put weight on his scapula. “Tired?”

Matt nods. He’s tired. Heavy. But he also wants to know something. The satchel hangs on the bedpost by his head. He reaches, takes the small computer out. ‘We could have found them faster.’

Bucky shifts. Cotton against sheets as he slides under them. “What do you mean?”

Matt huffs, hand moving to the keyboard again. ‘If you hadn’t made me stop so many times.’

Shuffling as Bucky arranges a pile of pillows behind him. Matt suspects it’s only to keep him remotely upright when he inevitably migrates in his sleep. His ribs are almost good enough to lie flat without causing pain, but not quite. “I’m not about to let you get hurt. Even over this.”

Anger bubbles under his skin. He may know he’s weak. He may know he’s pathetic, but he doesn’t want Bucky thinking that. ‘I could have taken it.’

“You ever think that maybe I don’t want to do that to you?” Bucky’s heart-rate speeds up. Not quite anger in his voice. Frustration. “That I don’t want to be the guy who steamrolls over everything and everyone for the sake of a mission, even if it is to save my best friend. I would die for him. I would tear the goddamn world apart for him. But what I will not do is risk damaging someone I care about. I don’t want to be the bad guy Murdock. Not anymore. Steve would never forgive me, and I’d never forgive myself. So, you want someone to treat you as badly as you treat yourself, then look somewhere else, because I will never ever hurt you. Understand?”

Matt blinks, dazed.

A soft thud as Bucky falls back against the pillows. “Get some sleep pal. You need it.”

A few moments of hesitation before Matt puts the small computer away and lies against the pillows. Bucky’s close enough to feel the heat from his body.

‘I will never ever hurt you.’

Matt rocks slightly from side to side against the pillows. His usual ritual now when he’s trying to fall asleep. He repeats Bucky’s words in his head until he drifts off.

***

He wakes with his head pleasantly aching like it does when he manages over eight hours sleep for once. If he were in New York he could tell from the degree of warmth on his skin, and the sounds and smells outside what time it was. As it is he guesses afternoon. Some sounds around him, but most people are gone from their hotel rooms. Apart from Bucky and Lucky only Bruce’s heartbeat is in the hotel suite, heart slow in sleep.

Matt’s in a familiar position. Curled into Bucky. His head pressed into Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s cold arm around his back. His warm one cradling the back of his head.

After three nights he’s mostly got over the embarrassment of waking up like this. He’s just grateful he hasn’t woken up wrapped around Natasha. This fourth morning isn’t any different from the others. And he has a trick he hadn’t known the first couple of times.

Matt pokes a finger into Bucky’s ribs at just the right spot. The man makes a sleepy noise of protest and his arms loosen their death grip. Matt slips free and climbs off the bed.

“Yer a brat.” The words are muffled like Bucky’s mumbling them into a pillow.

Matt smiles. “Coffee?”

Bucky’s muscles tense at the same time that Matt freezes, both realising what happened. “Yeah,” Bucky says finally. “Yeah.”

Matt showers quickly. Or as quickly as he can right now. He’s not really tired. Just kind of hollow. Something left over from the excitement of last night maybe, or the days before that. It’s true that Bucky made him stop and rest, but his body doesn’t seem to think the few hours every night were enough. Not to mention the nightmares. He hasn’t had as many as before they came here, and it’s easier to calm down when he wakes with a familiar heartbeat close enough to feel and a familiar voice reminding him he’s safe, but they’re still always there waiting.

Bucky’s still in bed when he comes to grab his satchel. Talking. A buzzing near his ear. Talking on the phone.

Lucky trails after him, yawning as Matt makes coffee. The kitchen is small, but in a separate room from the living room where Bruce’s slow heartbeat is. He feels like fruit today. He’s been begrudgingly choking down whatever’s in front of him for a while, so he wants to see if he can wake up his senses with flavor and actually feel something about what he’s eating for once.

It’s when he’s looking for a knife to chop the fruit that he notices it. There are sharp knives. Not many, but a few. His mouth turns dry. For the first time since he’s been here there’s no one to watch him. No Jarvis either.

He’s not sure if it’s the hollow feeling or something else that makes him slip one of the knives in his satchel, but once it’s there he feels a little better. More in control. He doesn’t have to do anything with it, but if he needs it, it’s there.

Dropping off Bucky’s coffee, Matt goes back to sit at the kitchen table, scraping his feet back and forth over the floor as he taps the case that holds his weekly doses of pills. It’s Thursday so only the last four containers have pills in them. Three pills today. Anti-nausea, HIV prophylaxis, and Zoloft. The same three pills on Friday and Saturday. Then the box for Sunday only has the Zoloft.

Taking into account the time difference, it’s been about four weeks and a day since he was raped. A little less than a four weeks since Claire saw the bruises and figured out what happened. Over three weeks since the rest of the world found out. The HIV pills get to stop soon. He’ll have his first test for HIV in about two weeks, the same time he gets the cast and the sling off.

It feels like a lot more time has passed than a month. At the same time it feels like it only happened yesterday. Or last night. Because last night he’d woken up full of fear and convinced he was still in that alleyway.

He pushes the bowl of fruit away after eating two pieces. He’s not hungry anymore.

For a while he sits, that heaviness flooding through him. Lucky nudges him. He pushes himself to his feet, digs around until he finds the cling-film, wraps the bowl of fruit in it. It’s an effort to pad to the living room, place the bowl in front of the sleeping Bruce, then pad back to the bedroom.

Bucky’s still on the phone when Matt climbs back onto the bed and pulls the sheets over his head. Talking about beer maybe.

Bucky sighs. “No Nat. I think we’re going to stay here today.”

***

Bucky introduces him to My Little Pony.

Matt knows he’s watched some of it before, but he can’t remember anything but the theme tune. He’s not sure what he thinks of it, but there is something soothing about listening to this world where friendship is so powerful, and things that seem scary aren’t so scary at all. He thinks he likes Rainbow Dash the best, or maybe Twilight since Rainbow Dash seems kind of lazy at times. He does feel a certain kinship with Fluttershy and her difficulties speaking in the first episode.

“Nice idea Pinkie Pie,” Bucky says when the pony sings about making frightening things disappear by laughing at them. “Not sure that’ll work on Hydra though.”

It might for her. Having a talking pink pony laugh in your face has got to be frightening too.

Matt lies against the pillows, weighted blanket over him, Lucky sprawled between him and Bucky. He turns Little Foot over and over in his hand, tracing the mottled plastic back and smooth belly. He’s feeling kind of heavy maybe. And something else. Something that presses at the back of his eyes and makes them hurt. Sad. He thinks that’s it.

They swap My Little Pony for a science fiction book by Isaac Asimov, which Bucky reads to him in his voice that manages to be both rough and smooth. Then up to the living room and being prodded along with Bruce to eat. More Isaac Asimov, the words changing from Bucky’s voice to Bruce’s when he has to call to check on Steve.

Matt doesn’t know when he starts thinking of the knife in his bag. Maybe he’s been thinking of it since he decided to put it there. There had to be a reason he picked it up, right?

He thinks of last night, when his mind finally found an off switch and shut down. It would be nice to find something like that again.

***

“Got something I need to tell you,” Bucky says as he sits next to him on the couch. Nerves in his voice. Heart too fast.

Bruce must hear the nerves too, because his footsteps walk next door to the kitchen. The sound of the fridge opening. Good. Bruce needs to eat. Transforming into Hulk takes it out of him, and he’s transforming to Hulk back and forth for days.

“Matt. They think they found them. Three of them.”

It takes a while to understand what Bucky’s saying. When it hits him, it feels like a punch to the gut.

“You don’t have to, but if you want to, you can do a voice line up. It’s the same as any other line up. They won’t be able to see or hear you. Each person will step forward and say a line. If you recognise one of them, you can nod or point.” Bucky sighs. “Breathe pal. I know this is big. I know it’s a decision, but I’m going to break it down for you, OK? Ready?”

Bucky breaks it down. A decision with two groups of benefits to choose from. It doesn’t matter which one he picks. Bucky reminds him it doesn’t matter again and again. Matt doesn’t quite believe it.

If he chooses to do the line up his benefits are: his case against them will be stronger. They’ll stop at the tower before going to the house in the Catskills so he’ll get to see Foggy and Karen.

If he chooses not to do the line up: he doesn’t have the stress of going. He gets to go to the quiet of the Catskills quicker.

There's something he needs to know. Something that the lawyer part of his brain manages to tell him through the haze of panic.

It's difficult to find the words. The small computer ends up flying across the room twice before he's done. After the second time he stops and just screams into his knees for a long moment, Lucky dancing around him and trying to lick his hand.

'Does the video show their faces?'

Bucky's heart goes even faster. "Shit. Didn't even think you wouldn't know that. Has anyone told you what's on the video?"

Matt shakes his head against his knees. It's ironic. With the gaps in his memory and the video out there, thousands of people know more about what happened than he does.

"OK pal. OK. If you want to know, you can tell me or Foggy or anyone and we'll talk to Fiona. Foggy said the video didn't show their faces. They've got a few identifying features. But they could use more to make it solid. Some voice examples too they might be able to use to match. He also said he wouldn't recommend it if it were anyone else in case a false ID messed up all the other evidence, but I don't think that'll be a problem for you."

It's not. Voices change over time and circumstance, but they're still unique. It's unlikely he wouldn't recognise them by it.

Matt tries to weigh it up. It's hard to keep it all straight in his head. The justice system prefers video evidence over eye witness testimony, and they don't like eye witnesses who aren't technically 'eye' witnesses. Then again, they also don't like identifying evidence that isn't the suspect's face. So adding his IDing the suspects to the pile of less than perfect identifying evidence could help.

He should do this. He doesn't want to, but he should.

He nods.

A thought coils in his stomach. Cold and comforting. He has the knife. If things get too much and he needs everything to stop, he has the knife.

***

Natasha smells of beer and nail polish when she comes back that night. "The Chief Minister is still pushing to get a picture with Matt before we leave."

Tony smells of nail polish and some kind of fruity alcohol. There's a layer of antiseptic over both of them, like they visited the hospital before coming back. Their hands hold crinkling noises. Bags of shopping. One of the bag clinks. Bottles maybe?

Plastic against wood as Bucky puts down the electronic thing on the kitchen table. "Don't think that's going to happen."

Matt presses his lips together in a tight line. Tips the omelet he cooked for Bruce onto a plate.

Crinkling of bags as Natasha sets hers down. "You can't do everything Matt. All or nothing thinking, remember? You're not a failure if you accept this is too far out of your comfort zone for now."

More crinkling as Tony sets his bags down too. It sounds like he has more than Natasha. Flesh against wood as he flops in the chair next to Bruce. "Press photos are boring anyway. It's whole load of smiling, shaking stranger's hands in front of more strangers. Tedious."

Matt sets the omelet in front of Bruce.

"Thanks Matt." A tired smile in Bruce's voice. "How bad will things get if we keep refusing?"

"The Chief Minister isn't afraid to use the press to her advantage." Crinkling, then clinking as Natasha takes something glass out of a bag and puts it in front of Bucky. "And she has a history of making full use of that after someone pisses her off."

Clink of strange metal against metal. The smell of beer. Huh. Bucky's arm works as a bottle opener. Matt's pretty sure that wasn't a function Hydra intended when they built it. "We're not budging. Even if touching strangers wasn't off the table, Matt's decided to do the line-up."

Movement of hair as Natasha nods her head. "So you need to take things easy before that, right Matt?"

Matt rolls his eyes.

A smile in Natasha's voice. "You know we're talking sense."

"The Hulk has never taken part in press photos," Bruce says, words slow and deliberate. "Being the first pictured shaking Hulk's hand could be seen as a pretty big deal."

"Sure Brucie?" Clinking of metal against ceramic. Tony eats some of Bruce's omelet.

"Do not get between me and my food." Bruce's words are half growl, half laugh. Metal against flesh as he steals the fork back. "And yeah. I may not trust Hulk, but you do. And I trust you."

A pout in Tony's voice. "And yet our friendship is not strong enough to share the delicious omelet."

"All my food is off limits three days following a Hulk out." Chewing noises. "And all my omelets made by Matt may be off limits forever. This is delicious."

Tony whines, sounding pathetic. "Murdock. Delicious omelet?"

Matt sighs, but pushes himself to his feet to make another omelet.

"This beer is terrible!" Bucky says, sounding gleeful. "I need to show Steve."

"Craft beer," Natasha says. "It's popular around here. I brought back a range for you guys to try. Mostly the good ones, but I threw in a few stinkers too. You need a bit of adventure to keep that old heart of yours ticking."

Matt ends up trying the terrible beer. He likes it.

***

Matt places the last of the bags in the hall. All packed and ready to go.

He knows he probably should've made more of his time here. Tony and Natasha went to a lot of places. Natasha and Sam had even dragged Tony to Gurudwara Bangla Sahib; a beautiful temple where they feed tens of thousands of people every day.

But the temple gets really crowded, and means leaving the hotel. He's glad to be going back to New York where the air isn't so thick and hot.

"Matt." Natasha's voice from the bedroom. "Can you come in here a minute?"

Bucky's checking the kitchen. Bruce and Tony haul the bags down to the car. Sam's with Steve and Clint.

Matt walks into the bedroom with a frown. Did he miss something? He'd checked pretty throughly, but there is a chance he missed something.

Natasha's heartbeat comes from near the bed. "Matt. I need you to give me the knife."

The world freezes for a long moment before coming on-line again.

"I checked the drawer and one's missing." Her voice is even, but not quite calm. "I can tell from your face that you have it. In your satchel I'm guessing."

Matt tries to remove his hand from where it's gripping the satchel, but it refuses to let go. He needs the knife.

"Why did you take it anyway? For protection?"

No. He's never used knives for protection. They're too easy to kill with. He prefers his fists.

"To hurt yourself?"

Why did he take the knife? He's anxious. That's true. The line-up lurks in his mind like a creature ready to pounce. But that's not it. He's not anxious enough to hurt himself. Not yet.

"To kill yourself?"

Is that why? He took the knife because he was feeling hollow. He kept it because it was something he could control. It's an out. The ultimate off switch. If he keeps it then he doesn't have to do the line-up no matter how much he knows he should. Because with the knife he always has the option to end everything.

Horror floods through him. Maybe he wasn't planning on killing himself, but something in his mind viewed it as an option. That's why he kept the knife. That's why he still wants to keep it.

He may not want to die, but he doesn't want to be overwhelmed again without being able to stop it.

"Matt." A little more tension in Natasha's voice. "Give me the knife."

His hand stays clutched around the satchel. His breath comes too fast. Feeling dizzy, he stumbles into the bathroom attached to the bedroom.

Natasha follows. Flesh against wood as she blocks his attempt to close the door. "I can't leave you alone until you give me that knife."

Matt fumbles until he finds the shower. The floor is dry. Stepping in, he uses the glass door to shut Natasha and Lucky outside. He crouches in the corner and tries to catch his breath.

He wants the knife so he has the option of an out. That doesn't mean he's going to use it. But the idea of doing something like this without a way out is terrifying. He remembers all too clearly that night in the gym when his anxiety didn't wane no matter what he did. He remembers the creeping crawling feeling of his skin. The way that something in his chest not only clawed but screamed.

Xanax might help. It's not magic. It doesn't sweep away all anxieties if they're too strong, but it does dull them, and make him more likely to seek help. So this isn't that bad, is it? He's going to try the xanax. He's going to try asking for help. The knife is just in case. It's a guarantee that he won't have to feel as bad as that night in the gym again.

The glass door slides open. Lucky's paws click against the plastic floor of the shower. He nudges once or twice, then goes straight for licking Matt's face. For once Matt doesn't mind. The contact wakes him up a little.

What is he thinking? He promised Foggy he wouldn't try to kill himself.

"Matt." Bucky's voice. Almost as soft as Steve's gets sometimes. "Come on pal. Hand it over."

Matt shakes his head, but his hand loosens from the satchel to stroke Lucky.

"You don't have to the line-up if you don't want to. Hell, if it's making you think things like this, I don't think you should do it."

Bucky doesn't understand. Rape cases are difficult to convict. Yes they have video evidence, but they don't have their faces. They didn't get any physical evidence from Matt's suit. It was too degraded. There were no witnesses. And despite Matt's extra talents, he's still blind, and could only give a partial testimony.

They need all the evidence they can get. Matt needs to do the line-up. He shakes his head, protesting Bucky's words.

"Kay. Then give me the knife. If you don't then it's not like you'll be able to do the line-up anyway, because you're not leaving this hotel room with a knife in your bag."

Frustration runs through Matt's body, chased by panic. Bucky's right. They're not going to back down about this.

"Come on pal."

Gritting his teeth, Matt takes the knife out of the satchel. His heart squeezes. Maybe he should've used it while he had the chance. Jarvis isn't in the hotel room. He had opportunities.

A thought pops in his head. No time for the brachial artery now. Not with Bucky here. The sternum would get in the way of a blow to the heart. But if he really wanted all of this pressure to go away, one quick blow to the jugular could do it. He's quick. Bucky wouldn't be able to stop him in time.

"Matty?"

Matt drops the knife. It clatters to the shower floor. He doesn't make a move towards it as Bucky picks it up.

***

"I'm sorry," is the first thing Sam says when he sits beside him on the jet.

They're sitting near the back of the large open section. Natasha is far ahead in the cockpit, Tony snarking beside her. Bruce is sleeping off his Hulk-out in the med-bay with Clint and Steve. Bucky was last seen alternating between hovering over Steve and Clint and making sarcastic comments.

Matt doesn't turn to face him. He doesn't feel like doing much of anything right now. None of the Avenger's attitudes seem to have changed toward him except for an added note of tension, and how someone is always hovering at his side. But that doesn't make him feel any less of a screw up.

"Fiona told us the session you missed was important. That you were going to go over your safety plan in detail. We couldn't find a place to print it. Then we got caught up. We thought we had time, but putting it off wasn't fair to you." Cloth against metal as Sam shifts on the bench. "So I'd like to try and go through it verbally if that's OK."

Matt shrugs.

"Your safety plan is something you read whenever you get suicidal thoughts. It tells you what to do, because in the moment you're not going to be thinking straight. I'm going to read you some questions. Some of them we might not be able to answer. Some of them you're going to need my help with, because I still don't think you're thinking straight."

Matt's not sure he's been thinking straight for a very long time.

There are a lot of questions, and Matt's not sure how to answer any of them. 'What do I need to reduce the risk of me acting on suicidal thoughts?' Sam says Tony already got someone to safety proof the house in Catskills like the tower, but there may be some things they haven't thought of. If there's anything Matt feels he's not safe with he needs to tell them.

'What warning signs or triggers are there that make me feel more out of control?' This one Matt tries to answer after Sam rephrases the question so he understands it better. He tries to think how he felt before he got suicidal thoughts.

The first time he was anxious because of court. He had some more thoughts when he was convinced Foggy was mad at him. This last time he's not sure about. Anxiety over the line-up was a factor. That's why he wanted to keep the knife so badly, but he picked it up before he knew about the line-up. He wasn't anxious then. He was just kind of heavy.

"I think you were sad," Sam says after he tries to explain using a cobbled together system of PECS cards and words on the small computer. "What do you think?"

That sounds about right. He nods, then frowns. Types short arduous words on the small computer. 'No reason.'

"Sometimes you don't need a reason to be sad. I think this time everything you did the last few days caught up with you, and you crashed. But sometimes you don't need a reason. You just are sad."

'What ways of coping do I have?'

None is Matt's answer. He has none.

Sam argues that while he has very few coping methods for suicidal thoughts, he's developed some for anxiety and depression. Since each of those seems to be behind his suicidal thoughts, he can try using some of those methods. He also presses Matt to think of times he had suicidal thoughts and didn't act on them, and whether anything helped them go away.

Matt remembers at least one time he had a feelings talk with Foggy and that helped. Feelings talks go on the list, along with exercise, touch, movies, books, weighted blanket, soft blankets, ripping newspaper, making things, playing with Lucky.

'What will I do to help calm and soothe myself?'

Matt will use one of the methods from the self harm distractions list Sam sends him. It can be a new method, or one he's already tried. If that doesn't help, he needs to tell someone he's anxious or feeling sad and they'll talk through things with him, or help him choose another method.

'What will you tell yourself to replace negative thoughts?'

"The feelings will pass," Sam says when Matt can't think of any. "That's one I used to use. That and these are horrible thoughts, but they're only thoughts. I don't have to act on them."

'What could others do that could help?'

Remind him of his safety plan. "And I know you might not like it," Sam adds. "But I think we'll be walking you through it the first few times. I'll add a top three interventions for anxiety, and top three for depression to give you a quick go to list, but it might take you a while to get the hang of it. Speaking of which, want to try out a method for anxiety now? Then we'll gauge where you're at and see if there's anything else we can do."

***

"Don't go near Bucky with this." Thump of plastic against metal as Sam sets the bucket outside the plane's bathroom door.

A wave of cold leeches into him from the bucket.

"Ground rules." Skin against skin as Sam rubs his hands. "Stay outside the bathroom door to minimise recoil. Aim all ice cubes inside the bathroom to minimise collateral damage. If I order you to stop, you stop. I'll probably only do that if Bucky walks by and has a bad reaction. Other than that, have fun."

Object flying through the air. Matt grabs it. Cold. He squeezes his hand tight around the ice cube, letting the pain of his frozen nerves drown out the thoughts in his head.

"That's a good method too." No judgement in Sam's voice. "The hurt of cutting with none of the damage."

Matt throws the half melted ice cube against the bathroom wall. It smashes against the tile. A loud sound. The crack, smash is similar to breaking glass and plates. It's satisfying.

Some of the tension leeches out of his shoulders as he reaches into the bucket for another ice cube.


	29. Chapter 29

The third man says "Fucking bitch," and Matt fights to breathe as a million fractured flashbacks pounce on him at once.

"Mr Murdock?"

This one smelled like skittles. He remembers that now. His head feels kind of woozy, like he's floating.

"Mr Murdock. Did you hear the man who raped you?" The ADA is female. Passionate. Someone he might have flirted with before all this.

Matt's sitting on the floor. The cane is gone from his hand. He nods. Lucky nuzzles at him.

She doesn't crouch down, but she does keep her distance. Foggy does too, even though his heart beats fast with worry. "Which number was he?"

Matt holds up three fingers.

Scuffling sounds as the men on the other side of the glass are led away. Matt's heart stays fast despite the xanax. He strokes Lucky and concentrates on his breathing.

They're just thugs, he reminds himself. And for the first time he's not using the words to ask why it happened. He's using them to remind himself of why it won't happen again.

Matt's met people who could overpower the officers out there and come after him or Foggy, or Karen, Jessica, or Bucky who wait outside. Skittles is not one of those men. It's fine. Matt's safe. Everyone is safe.

He doesn't quite believe it.

"You have a few minutes until we set up the next one." Softness in her voice. Not simpering enough for pity. Sympathy maybe.

Matt nods, concentrates on stroking Lucky.

***

Skittles, Cocaine, Dirt.

No. That's not the order. Is there an order? That was the order the men were presented in the line-ups. Is there a different order his brain thinks he should remember? He's not sure.

His feet move quickly down the corridor to where Bucky, Karen, and Jessica's hearts beat. They speed up when he gets closer. His whole body shakes, but he did it. He's done. He wants to go now. He needs to go now.

His hand grips Bucky's arm. His cane is gone. He's not sure where.

"Hey pal. Hey." Bucky had talked to him again on the jet after throwing the ice. They'd watched more My Little Pony. The episode where Applejack worked so hard helping everyone she neglected herself, and refused to accept help when it was offered. Bucky had poked him pointedly. Matt had huffed, while secretly deciding Applejack was his new favourite. He wants to go back to that moment. He wants to go anywhere that isn't here. "Breathe. Did you finish?"

Matt nods. He doesn't loosen his death grip on Bucky's arm. Lucky leans against his legs.

"Good. That's really good. Where's Foggy?"

Back in the room. But there's something else. Matt needs something. He's supposed to ask if he needs help, no matter how foreign the idea sounds. He takes his hand off Bucky's arm long enough to flash five fingers.

Bucky's heart beats faster. "Can you hold on until we get to the car. Or do you need me to find a room here?"

Matt's heart beats too fast. But they are here. Sometimes he thinks he hears them or a comment about them. He's not sure. It's hard to tell what's real and what's his panicked imagination. He tugs Bucky in the direction of the exit. He doesn't want to be here.

"OK Matt. We're leaving. Here. Let me guide you."

Matt's feet freeze in place. There's something else. It's not safe here. This whole building isn't safe anymore. Screwing up his face, he points in the direction of the room he just left.

"Crap. Foggy." Metal against skin. Bucky rubs his face. "Don't suppose you'll believe me if I tell you he'll be safe here for a few minutes?"

Someone's voice far away. "You saying that strung out junkie's one of the people who raped Daredevil?" Laughter from another part of the building. What are they laughing about? Is it about him? A voice that reminds him of dirt. "I'm telling you it's not like I wanted to do it. He was fucking disgusting all covered in blood and cum. I didn't like it. Not like the other guys. I'm one hundred percent straight. This isn't my fault."

Skittles. Voice slurred like there's something wrong with his jaw. "If that whore didn't want what we gave him, he shouldn't have crossed us. We put him in his place. That's all. He should count himself lucky we didn't kill him, the amount of disrespect he gave us."

Panic thrums through him. It isn't safe.

Jessica's footsteps move past them. She's trying to keep her voice even, but there's a layer of tension. "You take justice is blind. I'll take justice talks too much."

"Come on Matt." Karen's voice. "Let's go outside."

The trip to the limo is a stumbling journey of too fast breathing and voices.

They all pile inside, and Matt tries to breathe as they wait for Jessica and Foggy. Lucky nudges, and Bucky suggests he take another dose of xanax. There's one attached to Lucky's harness. Karen leans across to help him get it out when his fingers can't figure out the zips.

By the time he manages to go through the suddenly complicated process of getting the half pill to his mouth and swallowing, Jessica and Foggy are in the limo. Beside Karen he thinks. On the opposite side of the limo from him and Bucky.

Bucky helps him count his breaths. That helps. The limo pulls out, leaving the sounds of the police station behind them. That helps more.

"It went well," Foggy's voice says from opposite Matt. "Positive IDs on every one of them. It'll help."

"Shut it Pollyanna." Jessica's voice. Tense, from the other side of the seat Foggy's on. "Nothing in this shit goes well. It's just a slightly less potent level of shit."

"Well hello Eeyore. Nice to see you out of the hundred acre wood. Does Christopher Robin know you swear?"

Karen. "Guys. I love you both, but can we take it down a notch?"

'Hands. Can't get up.' Keeps repeating in his head. There are words too. Snatches that he can't remember hearing before. ' _Disgusting_.' ' _Jesus Christ are you crying?' 'Filthy little faggot.'_

Sounds echo off the window beside him. Whipping back his arm, he punches.

Metal wraps around his wrist. A flesh arm hooks around his chest and drags him backward across the seat. "Come on pal. Sit over here away from that."

As soon as the metal lets go of his wrist he drives a fist into his leg instead. Again. Again. Again. Until his upper leg throbs like a giant bruise.

Foggy's voice. "You're not going to stop him?"

"I'm going to try." Careful fingers unhook the satchel from over his shoulder. It lifts away from him. "Matty can I have your hand?"

Matt drives his fist into his head instead. The panicked feelings don't leave.

Foggy. Voice sounds choked. "You could restrain him."

"Not without his permission unless I have no other choice."

Matt moves towards the window again. That warm arm hooks around his chest, pulling him back against warm. Bucky's heart beats through him.

"Can't let you hit the window pal. Just breathe, OK. I'm not holding you. You want my arm gone, just push at it."

Bucky's arm is feather light. It moves until the only point of contact is a hand over Matt's sternum. Bucky's side is warm against his back. A single shuffle would make all points of contact fall away.

Matt doesn't move. He sits, tries to breathe. Raises his hand to his mouth and bites when that doesn't work.

Foggy's voice, strangled. "Matt."

Shuffling sounds. Bucky's metal hand brushes his own, placing something soft against it. "Hold this for me pal."

Matt stops biting. Grips the soft. It's familiar. Thin fleece. Stitches. The marble maze Foggy gave him as a present when he arrived back. There's a pattern on it. Foggy said it's of the Sith lord from Star Wars with a few of the Soldiers behind him, and TIE fighter ships over their heads. He'd also gotten him a Koosh ball and a Tangle Fuzzy. Stim toys he said he'd been dying to see if Matt liked for years, but hadn't known how he'd react.

"Move the marble through the maze," Bucky's voice vibrates through him. "One side to the other."

Bucky's heart beats against his back. That helps. Lucky clambers onto the seat in front of him, climbing half into his lap and licking his hands. That helps too. But his fingers don't seem to know how to follow Bucky's words.

"Matt? You know where you are?"

Limo with Bucky and Lucky. Others too? It's an effort to nod.

"Good pal. Breathe with me. Deep breath. In." Bucky demonstrates. Matt can feel it as well as hear it. He tries to copy. "And out."

They do that half a dozen more times before Bucky asks him to move the marble through the maze again. It's difficult. He doesn't remember it being this difficult the first time he tried it. It's a simple maze. His fingers tingle, flashing between numb and back. They can't even find the marble hidden in the fleece. He makes a frustrated sound.

"I know," Bucky says. "But this'll help you get your brain back on-line. Take it slow. Keep following my breathing. Try and find the marble."

It takes a while and a few reminders to keep breathing slow, but finally his fingers feel the hard lump of marble hidden in the piece of fleece.

"Good. Now figure out how to move it up."

His fingers have to work together, pressing either side of the little piece of fleece to squeeze up the marble inside. It's hard. He almost drops the marble maze a few times before he manages it. By the time the marble stops at the top of the fleece his breathing comes slower. It's easier to think.

"Can you figure our how to get it through the maze?"

Matt places the marble maze on the lump of Lucky that's taken residence on his lap. Traces the stitches. It takes a long time for the structure to make sense in his head. Each second spent working it out makes it easier to breathe.

The stitches close off all the section the marble is in except a bit at the top. Matt squeezes the marble sideways into the next section. Then it needs to go down. This next section is only open at the bottom. Down, all the way to the end of the fleece, then to the right and into the next section. Up again. Across. Down again. Across. The marble reaches the end of the fleece maze at least ten minutes after he started it. The first time he'd tried it, it took ten seconds.

"Feeling better?"

Matt nods, then starts to guide the marble back through the maze.

***

"So this is pretty patronising," Foggy says as he hands Matt the present. "But she didn't mean it to be. And she put a lot of thought into it. So let me explain it before you make any judgements."

They sit on the large couch in the communal lounge. Karen's footsteps move around the kitchen area. Making some kind of snack. Smells like cucumber, butter, freshly baked bread. It's a nice smell although Matt's not sure he'll be able to eat any. He gets airsick apparently. Mainly around take-off. They'll be going back to the jet on the roof as soon as everyone ready.

Matt carefully unwraps the present from Candace. Soft under his fingers. One of the softest materials he's every felt. Squishy too. Whatever it is has strange shapes. A round shape. A longer round shape with five bits sticking out of it. Then thin leather on one side of the longer round shape. Two pieces of leather that fold up. Matt spreads one of them out. There are swirls and patterns etched into the leather surface.

Fabric against leather as Foggy shifts next to him on the couch. "Can you tell what it is?"

Matt frowns. "A toy? It has a tail. And wings?"

"That buddy is Toothless." A smile in Foggy's voice, but his heart flutters with nerves. "They asked about you a lot. So I told them what nice things I could. I happened to mention a certain blond enchantress bewitching you into obsession with everything 'How to train your dragon.'"

Karen's heels clip over to them. Ceramic against wood as she sets a large plate down on the coffee table. "Oh my God it's so cute."

Matt hands Toothless to her.

Thoughtful humming as she considers it. "I think this is the softest stuffed toy I've ever felt. And leather wings. Where did she get it from?"

"She's friends with someone studying fashion design who helped her source people to make it. I think Mom helped with the cost. Candy knows all about your texture thing, so she made it, and I quote, "as soft and huggable as humanly possible," and she put some abstract patterns on the wings so you could feel them."

Karen hands it back. Matt traces his fingers over Toothless's face. A stitched mouth. Harsher material than the soft plush for the eyes. Little silk smooth ears close to the sides of his head. Plush claws on the end of each foot. He's not sure what to think.

"I know it's a bit patronising," Foggy says. "You know. Give the rape victim soft toys and wrap them in blankets and hugs. Though to be fair you do like blankets and hugs. And if you like soft toys that's fine too. I'm sure your super-senses picked up that I took Chewie to college with me. So you'll get no judgement here."

"Chewie?" He doesn't flinch at the word 'rape victim' though everyone's heart jumps, even Foggy's. They all need to accept the facts.

"I'll show him to you sometime. He currently hangs out in my wardrobe. He's brown and hairy like Chewie from Star Wars." Foggy's hands close around Toothless. Move somewhere near the dragon's chest. "There's one more thing."

Matt's jaw drops, because suddenly there are two sets of Foggy's heartbeat in the room. One louder and a little more mechanical. He pokes at Toothless's chest, feeling something rubbery inside there. "It's you."

"Still a little creepy that you know that bud. Here. There's a switch if you want to turn it off." Foggy's hands close over Matt's. Guide him to a place to poke in Toothless's chest right over the rubber thing. The heartbeat stops. "Candy recorded it a couple days after I did my best to explain your superpowers. She even made me get a massage first so my heartbeat would be relaxed. Let me tell you, Bruce gives great massages. I had no idea what she was up to then. She just said she was planning a surprise for you."

Something in Matt's heart aches. "She put a lot of effort into this."

"Yup." Foggy pops the 'p.'

Matt puts him on his lap to trace him. He's about forty centimetres long. A bit more for the tail. "He's probably about the same size Toothless got to in the books."

"And he looks like the one from the movies. Except more kawaii." A smile in Karen's voice. "The perfect combination."

Foggy snorts. "You two are total dorks."

Matt frowns. "What's kawaii?"

"Cute," Karen says. "Like a shorter more baby-like version of the one in the movie."

"Dude." Movement of hair as Foggy shakes his head. "Your lack of social media education is showing. Here. Let me try to help you with that until you have to leave."

***

Matt's head hurts.

He'd figured at first that he'd hit his head too hard during his incident earlier today. Then he'd considered it was getting worse because of the jet ride they'd taken to get to the Catskills. They've been here for twenty minutes. Everyone else is rushing around outside Matt's bedroom, unpacking and claiming bedrooms.

The house is smaller than he'd expected. Sam had given him a verbal tour on the ride over, trying to distract him from the urge to puke. A lab/workshop in the basement. A huge gym with everything possible on the first floor. And on the ground floor, two bathrooms and eight bedrooms surround a large living room / kitchen / dining area.

Bigger than anything Matt could hope to own, but small by Tony Stark standards.

They're staying here about a week which should give Steve's bones a chance to do most of their healing. Sam also said they want to use this as an opportunity to try and and continue the progress Matt's made being around people. There's a small town about one and a half miles from here. They'll go there every day starting tomorrow.

Matt tries to distract himself by thinking about the case. Olivia had with Matt's permission given Jessica a copy of his statement so far. She'd tracked down Josh. The man he'd beaten up a week before the rape. The one they'd yelled about being their friend when they'd beaten him up.

He'd given up Dirt, who he claimed was the only one he knew by name. He'd tagged along with Dirt, whose real name is Todd Vasquez, and hung out with the others a couple of times but stopped because they were always picking fights. Jessica said he'd given him up so easily because he's a "stupid homophobic scum" which Matt takes to mean that he was more disturbed by the gender of his friend's victim than the act itself.

Dirt - it seems too strange to call the monster in his head by a human name - led to Cocaine. Not on purpose. Cocaine (who has the disturbingly human name Albert Jones) was high when Dirt was denying his involvement, and had spilt the whole story to Jessica's waiting Dictaphone. "Thank God the world is full of idiots," Jessica had said. "Makes my job a hell of a lot easier."

Matt thinks he likes Jessica. She doesn't mince words. He knows that sometimes he needs people to be careful so he doesn't get triggered, but it's also nice to meet someone who doesn’t act like he’s broken.

Skittles hadn’t been Jessica. Skittles (Adam Thomas) had been boasting about what he’d done. Eventually he’d boasted in front of the wrong people and ended up beaten and tied up in front of a police station, a tape with his confession in his pocket. They think people from savedaredevil are behind it, but no one has claimed responsibility. Foggy says the group knows about it and is very excitedly spreading the news, which does suggest one of them was behind it.

It’s strange to think that strangers are standing up for him.

The sound of his bedroom door opening. Bruce’s heartbeat in the doorway. “Matt? Do you want to help me make supper?”

Matt nods, pushes himself up off the bed.

***

They make pizza.

Not from scratch because it’s late. Sometime after ten pm. They left New Delhi around seven pm on Thursday evening. They arrived in New York seven hours later, which with the time difference was actually four thirty pm on Thursday evening. It’s confusing, but what it amounts to is being awake longer than anyone wants.

They line up the premade pizza bases on the long breakfast bar in the kitchen area and make one for each person. The oven is big, but only fits four pizzas in at a time. Steve and Clint get theirs first since they’re injured. Bucky and Natasha too because they’re the ones who have to put up with them.

Bucky and Clint have baked bean sauce instead of tomato sauce to coat the base. They use half a can each, covering it with the stuff. Apparently it makes the dough cook soft and extra tasty. Matt’s not sure he agrees. He knows all too well how many chemicals are in that stuff.

Bruce shows Matt how to cook a homemade tomato sauce to cover the rest of the pizzas. It smells really nice. He’s glad he’s learnt to make it, even though using the blender ratchets up his headache a dozen notches. For once he manages not to burn something he’s cooking, although it gets close a couple of times.

Bruce hums as he spreads the paste, and Matt chops ingredients. It doesn’t escape him that Natasha uses the moment he has a knife in his hand to hop onto the counter next to him and talk to him about The Hunger Games which is a book series she has a lot of strong feelings about.

Steve, Clint, Bucky, Natasha, Tony, Pepper, Sam, Bruce and Matt. A lot of pizza to make. A couple of extra ones for Bucky and Steve.

They eat on the various armchairs and beanbags positioned around the pull out couch bed Steve lies on. He’s off the oxygen now, but sits propped up to help him breathe. He chews slowly and steadily. Sometimes his heart slows almost to sleep before he starts chewing again, like all his body wants to do is eat and sleep.

Steve’s heart drifts off fully to sleep after he finishes his second pizza. Tony makes a comment about leaving Grampa to it, and everyone starts to trickle off into their bedrooms.

“Hey Matt?” Sound of skin pulling against skin. Bruce wringing his hands together? “Do you want to do a short meditation with me? I usually do one before going to bed.”

Matt stops slowly spinning around in the sling that hangs from the ceiling. It’s more a chair than a hammock, and he’d discovered that if you twist it around, then lift your feet it spins you in the other direction. It’s soothing. Between that and the food his headache is almost gone. Good since he’d worried it might develop into a full grown migraine for a moment there.

He nods in Bruce’s direction. He needs to get back in the habit of meditating regularly again.

***

_The baseball bat hits his head with a clang, and he goes down._

Pain. It pounds at his head. It feels like someone is trying to pry his skull apart from the inside. Curling forward into his knees he whines. The sound cuts into his head like hot knives.

Hot panting breath. The mattress shifts as Lucky moves towards him, bringing a cloud of doggy smell. Nausea floods over him. Somehow he remembers how to give the dog a back off signal.

He swallows, one hand clutching the silk sheets. Please don’t throw up. Please don’t throw up. Eventually the wave of nausea subsides enough to breathe.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

What is that? It hurts.

Light breathing from the wall above his head. Tony and Pepper. Snoring from somewhere else in the building. Clint. Someone mumbles in their sleep. Bruce.

It’s too much. He lowers himself back to the pillows. Every movement sends a spike through his skull and another wave of nausea through his stomach.

The stink of dog, pizza, lavender, lemon, roses, cologne, blueberries, engine grease, sharp soap, cinnamon. It’s a lot. He groans and the noise vibrates through his jaw, makes his stomach lurch again.

“Mr Murdock?” A voice from the humming ceiling. It splits open his skull. “Do you require assistance?”

It takes a while for the words to make sense. Does he need help. Possibly. Does he want help. No. But when has he ever wanted help? He’s supposed to ask if he needs something, isn’t he? That’s what he’s supposed to do now. But it’s the middle of the night and everyone is sleeping.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His brain is hazy with pain. Everything is too loud, too there, too much. “Foggy’s not here.” It’ comes out as a mumble.

“Mr Nelson is at the tower. He had to stay in the city to work on your case.” A pause. “Do you wish me to contact him?”

It’s tempting. Foggy wouldn’t mind being woken for this. He’s told him repeatedly to call him at any hour if Matt feels a migraine coming on. But he’s a long way away. What would calling him do except worry him?

Except Matt’s not supposed to hide things anymore is he? But that was about his anxieties, not migraines. Or do migraines count too? He doesn’t know. All he knows is this hurts, and he keeps doing the wrong thing. Stick would say to tough it out. His dad would say to shake it off. Is that the right thing? “Jarvis.” He doesn’t want Foggy to be mad again. “I don’t know um I don’t know w-what I’m su-supposed to do.”

“Mr Murdock,” Jarvis’s voice is calm, even if it’s still too loud. “Am I right in thinking you’re in pain?”

“Um. Migraine. Think.” He doesn’t think. He knows. This is one of his classic migraines. The pain and nausea increases quickly as his brain wakes up. He buries his head in the smooth cool of his pillow, and at the same time tries not to move.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

What is that noise? It keeps exploding in the back of his head. He heard it before and didn’t like it then, but he’d ignored it. He can’t ignore it now. Not when it’s so loud. It keeps exploding, and with every boom his head screams louder.

“Would you like me to contact someone to retrieve one of your migraine pills?” An apologetic note enters Jarvis’s voice. “They’re locked up to ensure your safety, so you won’t be able to access them yourself.”

Good because he’s not sure he’s able to move. Bad because he doesn’t want to wake anyone up. “Make me loopy.”

“We have aspirin if you would like an alternative.”

Aspirin won’t touch this pain, and it’ll make his nausea worse. He shifts trying to find a more comfortable position. Groans when that makes someone stab a knife through his sinuses. “Not aspirin.”

“Perhaps I could inform Sergent Barnes of your predicament?”

It’s confusing. All of this is confusing. And his head hurts so much. Codeine would help with the pain, but send his nausea into overdrive. The only option is the migraine pills. But it’s the middle of the night. He doesn’t want to wake anyone. And if he does, and he takes a pill, he’s going to go into that loopy haze before it drags him into sleep. He thinks he trusts the Avengers, but being so out of control around them is distasteful.

“Jarvis.” Matt swallows around another wave of nausea. “What’s - what’s the r-right thing? What am I su-supposed to do?”

A long pause. “You are in pain. The right thing is to call for assistance. Sometimes the bravest thing a person can do is ask for help.”

“Yeah,” Matt says softly. “Yeah. And the - the pill. Migraine.”

Every instinct screams at him that this is a bad idea. Stick sneers at him. His father sounds disappointed. The nuns sound put upon, because he needs help again and they have so many others to take care of. He’s not supposed to be a burden. He’s not supposed to expect someone to take care of him.

He remembers crying shortly after his father died. Remembers reaching out to a nun who sat next to him. One of the few who didn’t either tell him to wash his face and get ready for whatever he was late for, or tell him it was God’s plan. He remembers how she’d flinched away when he’d tried to hug her. The hurt that blossomed in his chest when she’d made an excuse he knew was a lie to get out of having to deal with him. The moment he decided to never reach out and put himself through that hurt again, and mostly succeeded until Foggy.

He remembers the tone in the nun’s voices turning from pity to anger to disgust as Matt broke apart in the months following his father’s death, until he was a kid who could spend hours a day teeth gritted in pain and rocking on his bed. Sometimes screaming so loud that they had to find him a corner of the orphanage away from the other children to hide him in. The whispers that he was doing all this for attention, and the decisions of many to withhold attention to try and bring him around to obedience.

“Hey Matty.” Soft voice. Bucky. The mattress shifts as he sits down. “Think you can sit up to take this?”

Matt fumbles with his arm. The mattress is closer to his head than he remembers it being. He’d slid down the stack of pillows somehow. He pushes himself up, and no. His head splinters into a million pieces at the same time his stomach rams into his throat. His fingers scramble for the edge of the mattress. Then there’s plastic placed against his chest, and a cold arm lifting him up. A bucket?

He retches again and again until the taste of vomit turns to bile and sour spit. The sound, the smell, the movement. It sets his head on fire. Everything goes fuzzy until there’s a wet cloth wiping at his face.

“Sorry,” Matt whispers. The vibration of the words almost makes him vomit again. “Sorry.”

Bucky’s heartbeat jumps next to his side. The heartbeat is nice, but Matt’s not sure whether he likes the warm. The fire in his head licks around his body, and he’s not sure he can take the warmth of Bucky’s on top of that. And it’s really high up propped up like this. Even though his legs are on the mattress it feels like he’s a hundred feet high. “You kidding me? I’m a pro at this. Steve was always sick growing up. Far as I’m concerned you haven’t thrown up on me yet, so you’re doing better than he did.”

Matt sighs, then bites back a whimper when that sends a jagged bolt of pain through this head.

“We need to wait a couple of minutes to see if your stomach settles enough to take this pill. Is me talking good. Yes or no?”

“Yeah.” The words come. They’re a little harder than with Jarvis. Maybe because Jarvis doesn’t have heat or a heartbeat. He’s more remote, and less pressure to talk to. “Yeah. But - um - soft.”

“Right.” Bucky keeps his voice soft. “I ever tell you how me and Stevie met? I was five minding my own business, reading some book I probably shouldn’t have been able to read at that age. So this bully starts on me about my book. Kid twice my size. Snatches it away and makes like he’s going to rip it up. And for the first time in my life none of my protective older sisters is around to set him straight. Now if he hadn’t taken the book I probably would’ve run for it. But I’d saved up all my money to get it, and by God I wasn’t going to let that asshole harm a single page. So I go at him again and again. My sisters could hold their own, so I’d learnt some tricks watching them. But of course I lost miserably. Then this tiny runt of a kid rushes past me and starts whaling on the guy. He’s about my age, but I swear to you he looked no older than three at the most. The bully drops the book, so I snatch it and the kid and hightail it out of there. All the time this little kid is snarling to get back there and teach that bully a lesson. And that’s how I met Steve.”

Bucky lowers him carefully against the pillows after the pill goes down, and starts talking about other things. Moments with the commandos. The way Bucky’s mother always used to pack some food for Steve in Bucky’s lunch bag even though she had several kids of her own to look after. The way five year old Bucky felt he hit the jackpot when he found Steve partly because he’d get to play the protective and caring older sibling for once like his sisters did to him. Only to find out that Steven Grant Rogers did not want his protection or care in any shape or form.

“Think I thought I’d got myself a baby duckling to play big brother to those first few days. Turns out it was more like a rabid terrier. Still ended up pals in the end, but the looks he gave me before I figured out cutesy talk was a no go. He perfected his ‘Captain America is very disappointed in you’ stare early.”

The pain leeches away bit by bit. The nausea goes with it. The sounds and smells become muffled like someone’s covered them with a thick blanket. Matt likes whoever did that. It’s very nice of them.

Matt lurches upright, and whoa. His head feels really heavy. Like someone’s muffled the pain by injecting his head with liquid lead. He thinks it’s better this way, but it’s hard to balance. “Steve’s crackling.”

A cold hand on his shoulder. A smile in Bucky’s voice. Why is he smiling right now? This is important. “You weren’t kidding when you told Jarvis these pills make you loopy.”

Matt screws up his face. That isn’t the right response. Maybe Bucky doesn’t understand? “Steve crackled on the-” what’s the word? “Too much noise. Too much movement. Stomach hurts.”

“Your stomach hurts?”

Matt shakes his head. The room spins. Bucky’s really bad at this. “The - the - there was ice.”

“The jet?”

Matt nods, shifting to the edge of the bed. Bucky’s really good at this. His arm on his shoulder is also very useful in making sure he doesn’t spin away with his head. His feet thump as they hit the floor. Ouch.

“Yes ouch,” Bucky says without sympathy. “That’s why you shouldn’t be moving around. Where are you going?”

Matt pushes himself to his feet. It’s a lot more complicated than he remembers. Also very high. Was he always this tall? Everyone but Natasha, Karen, Claire, and Foggy seem to be taller than him. How do they cope? “Sharp soap.” He takes a cautious step towards where he hopes the door is.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Hands on his shoulders. “You’re also about to walk into a wall. You were talking about Steve before. Did you want to see him?”

Matt nods, frowning. He just said that. Steve was crackling. He should check on him.

It takes both a very long time and a very short time before his legs find the sofa bed and he collapses forward.

“Hey Steve. Apparently you’re crackling, so we’ve come to see you.” Is Bucky laughing?

Steve sounds tired. “What?”

Matt tilts his head. Steve’s stomach makes hungry noises. “Bucky. Bucky.”

The mattress jumps as Bucky sits down. Helps Matt into more of a sitting position. “What is it pal?”

“Steve needs…” Matt frowns. Words. “He can have my pizza.” He’d left more than half of his.

“That’s nice of you Matt.” A smile in Steve’s voice. “But I’m fine.”

Matt points a finger in his direction. “Lie. Stomach says lie.”

Shifting as Bucky gets up from the mattress. “I’ll grab you some fruit.”

Fruit is good. Lots of nutrients. Matt approves. His searching hand finds Steve’s shoulder. Which one was it? He’d heard it on the jet on the way here, but not on the way to the tower and Foggy and Karen. The right one he thinks. He traces the arm down until he finds the brace on his wrist. Tilts his head to listen carefully. “Crackling a little. Better.”

Bucky’s uneven footsteps move towards them. “Steve’s wrist was crackling?”

Matt just said that. What’s wrong with Bucky today?

Bucky sits on the mattress again. Skin against ceramic as he hands Steve a bowl that smells like fruit. “I still have no idea what crackling means Matt.”

Is Bucky being slow on purpose? Matt taps Steve’s right wrist again. “Crackling.”

“I think I know what he means.” More heat to Steve’s face. Blushing? Matt touches his fingers to Steve’s cheek to check. Yup blushing. “I may have taken off my brace at the tower and tried something it wasn’t ready for. I uh may have re-broken it.”

Darkness in Bucky’s voice. Matt doesn’t like it. “Re-broken it.”

“Just a little. And Matt says the crackling he’s hearing is almost gone. So it’s healing.” Pleading in Steve’s voice.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

That sound again. Matt had almost managed to ignore it, but it’s louder out here. It’s constant. Annoying. “Bomb,” he mumbles disgruntled. Who has the bright idea to put a bomb in a house? Then again, this is Tony’s place. It’s possible he thought it was a good idea for science reasons Matt doesn’t understand.

Sudden sounds break through the muffled haze. Steve’s and Bucky’s heartbeats? Sound fast.

Matt presses a hand against Steve’s sternum, curious. “Fear?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. “And surprised too. What do you mean bomb?”

“In the house,” Matt says like it’s obvious. That boom boom boom explodes through his ears. Surely they can hear it?

Steve’s heart speeds up under his hand. Huh. Interesting. No wait. Bad. Steve isn’t supposed to be scared. “Matt. Where’s the bomb?”

“It’s exploding all the time.” Wait. Matt should think of something to make Steve feel better. “Don’t be heart too fast.” No. Wrong words. Also not useful. You can’t just tell someone to calm down. You need to tell them to “breathe.”

Steve obediently takes a slow breath. His lung’s healing nicely. “Matt, can you point to the bomb?”

Matt takes his hand off Steve’s chest to point at the top of the wall in front of the sofa bed. “Bomb.”

He’s close enough to Steve and Bucky to hear their hearts slow down. Good. Steve chuckles. Confusing. Is he so used to bombs that having one in his house is no big deal? Avenging sounds like an action packed job. Then again, Matt’s feeling pretty calm about the whole house exploding every second, even though it’s annoying.

Hair against cloth as Steve shakes his head. “Matt. That’s a clock.”

That makes a lot more sense. But still. “Loud.”

“I’ll get it pal.” Laughter in Bucky’s voice too. “Jarvis can you turn that clock off?”

The boom boom boom stops. Wow. If he knew it was that easy Matt would’ve done that hours ago. Without the distraction it’s easier to hear the dulled noises around him. Bruce talks in his sleep. “Strange chemicals likes jellybeans.”

The mattress shifts as Bucky settles beside him. Movement by his feet and oh the blanket moves. It’s not as nice as Matt’s blanket, but it’s OK as it settles over Matt’s silk pyjamas. “Think it’s time for bed pal. You can go back in your room or you can sleep here. Got some fleece blankets you can wrap up in.”

Fleece blankets are a tempting offer, but Matt doesn’t want to go to sleep, even though he can feel it leeching its way in. Maybe if he focuses on something else the sleepy feeling will go away. He points at the snuffling sound coming from behind the sofa. “What’s that?”

“That Matt is the front door,” Bucky says dryly. “Come on pal. You’ve banished the bomb-”

Matt gives him a strange look. “Clock,” he corrects. Why would Bucky think a clock was a bomb?

“Clock.” Matt can hear the eye-roll in Bucky’s voice. “So close your eyes a minute and you’ll drift off and feel a hell of a lot better when you wake up.”

Silly Bucky. Why would closing his eyes make any difference? Also. “Doors don’t snuffle. It moves. Smaller than Lucky. What is it?”

“Probably a raccoon outside or something. Can’t see it.” Bucky sighs.

Matt frowns, pointing at the noise again. “Right there.”

“Matt.” Movement of hair as Bucky shakes his head. “That’s a wall pal. I can’t see outside.”

Matt’s not sure why. Bucky’s the one with the eyes.

“Going to put my arm over your shoulders. That alright?”

Matt nods, but remembers something when the cold arm pulls him to Bucky’s side. He frowns. “A trick.”

“To get you to fall asleep,” Bucky’s voice vibrates into his side. “Yeah. But you need your sleep. This pill isn’t going to last forever. Best if you sleep through as much as you can.”

Matt shakes his head, even as his fingers tap on Bucky’s metal arm. He can’t really make out the sound-waves in this state, but from what little he can see they’re nice. “Don’t want.”

Steve’s voice. Patient. “Why don’t you want to sleep Matt?”

Matt grumbles. “They don’t let me up. Keep - um- kicking. Hands. Pain. Don’t like.”

Bucky’s heart speeds up. Wet in his voice. Upset. “Nightmares can be scary, but when you wake up you’ll be here with us. You’ll be safe.”

There was something that helped before. Wasn’t there? It’s hard to find the words. “Safe.” That’s one of them. “Jarvis.” Another. He waits expectantly.

“Do you wish something from me Mr Murdock?” Jarvis’s voice asks.

Matt nods. He just said what he wanted. Wasn’t it enough? “Safe.” It’s a word like that he wants. He can’t find the right word, so he repeats the closest one again. “Safe.” Something else. “Talk.” What else? What else? “Air vents. Hammock. Weapons. Camer- camer…” He’s pretty sure that word didn’t used to be so difficult to say. He’s also pretty sure all these words weren’t so difficult to find. It’s almost like he took one of his migraine pills.

“Would you like me to detail the security for this site?”

Jarvis is awesome. Matt nods.

Jarvis is detailing the perimeter of the grounds, and Matt is getting a tenth of it, when he finally drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt's marble maze is based on this one: https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/251688898/the-dark-side-sensory-marble-maze-for?ref=shop_home_active_3
> 
> Tangle fuzzies will be described later, but for now this is what they look like: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Tangles-Inc-2900-Tangle-Fuzzy/dp/B000S0TOS6/ref=pd_sim_21_15?ie=UTF8&dpID=317fWpFQdNL&dpSrc=sims&preST=_AC_UL160_SR160%2C160_&refRID=7XEC0GDM61B0MJSCQDE1
> 
> And for those not in the know, this is a koosh ball: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Sensory-Toy-Warehouse-Koosh-Ball/dp/B005QULXXC/ref=pd_sim_21_8?ie=UTF8&dpID=51zFzqWFAzL&dpSrc=sims&preST=_AC_UL160_SR160%2C160_&refRID=QYCZWHX0NZ40K65XEXZS
> 
> Matt's one is red, though that may not be mentioned since he doesn't think of things by their colours often.


	30. Chapter 30

Matt and Natasha spar on the grass behind the house.

They’re working on Matt’s movements. He’s graceful. With his enhanced balance it’s hard not to be. But she says he’s not making the most of his abilities. He may be graceful compared to the average human, but his movements are rough compared to what they could be.

The perfected moves they practised will give him added power and accuracy. Working on his ability to dodge and move around lighter and more fluidly will improve his ability to evade attacks and get past defences to deliver them.

He starts to see what she means when she asks him to hit her, and she dodges every blow. It’s like she’s made of water instead of flesh. She flows out of the way every time.

“Break.” She says after he’s missed her dozens of times, and she’s slid past his defences ten times to give him an insultingly light tap on various parts of his body.

Tension runs through him. He finds his satchel. Digs out a water bottle, then the small computer. He’d woken too late for a run this morning. Pepper had whispered him awake in time for his Skype session with Fiona.

They’d gone over his safety plan, which he’s to keep on him at all times. Then discussed cognitive distortions again, and practised identifying and recording negative thoughts. Matt’s supposed to record as many as he can on his small computer, then put aside at least twenty minutes a day to go over them and re-frame them. Then she’d asked him to give her five reasons why he thought the rape was his fault.

It was easy. He probably could’ve given her a hundred reasons if she’d asked for them.

1) It’s my fault because I’ve gone up against worse odds than six to one.

2) It’s my fault because I’m a better fighter than any of them.

3) It’s my fault because I shouldn’t have got distracted.

4) It’s my fault because there were opportunities to get up that I didn’t take.

5) It’s my fault because I stopped fighting back.

Then they’d gone through each and given one reason each was wrong. Fiona had done most of the work, making suggestions and asking questions, because he couldn’t think of any reasons why they weren’t true.

1) It’s not my fault because I’ve also gone up against better odds and lost.

2) It’s not my fault because I had a head injury.

3) It’s not my fault because I was tired, and I’m human and humans get distracted.

4) It’s not my fault because I made the best decisions I could with the information I had.

5) It’s not my fault because dissociation is a natural reaction to trauma. My mind was trying to protect itself.

Matt had printed out and glued all the reasons why it’s not his fault in his book, along with another reason Fiona gave him.

It’s not my fault because they were the ones who chose to do it. So it’s their fault.

So Matt’s feeling really tense that late morning sparring with Natasha. His head is too full of the reasons why it’s not his fault. He doesn’t believe any of them. And every light touch Natasha gives him increases that tension.

The grass is soft and warm. He types the words he needs to say on the small computer, then tosses it in her direction while he drinks from the water bottle. ‘You don’t have to go so easy on me.’

Fabric shifting as Natasha crouches - no sits - beside him. “Who said I was going easy on you? You haven’t got any hits in, have you?”

No, but. He drops the drained bottle, holds out his hand for the computer. Plastic placed in his palm. ‘You tap like we’re playing tag instead of sparring. I can take more. My instructor when I was ten. He hit hard enough to break bone. And that was when I didn’t know how to defend myself.’

Silence for a while longer than it should take to read it, but her heart-rate doesn’t change. Firmness in her voice. “My instructors did too. That’s why we’re not training that way. When we get to full on sparring you can count on bruises. Until then we do it this way. Got it?”

Matt scowls, but nods.

“We should add some aikido to your repertoire.” Sloshing of water as Natasha drinks. She smells of sweat. She may be faster than him, but she’s feeling some strain keeping that way. “It uses small joints. Very precise and graceful. It’s hell to master, but your senses might make it easier for you. I’ve seen experts take down masters in all kinds of martial arts disciplines with barely a touch.”

Matt had thought about that one, but Stick didn’t teach it, and it had been too precise to learn from a book. With someone to teach him it might be possible. He nods.

“Ready to get back to it?”

Another nod.

A smile in Natasha’s voice. Her hand taps his arm before he can move away. “Tag, you’re it.” Smooth fast movement as she darts away.

Matt hesitates a moment, before running after her.

***

“This one,” Matt mumbles, pointing at the watermelon.

“Really?” A frown in Bucky’s voice. Smell of watermelon in his hand. He’d already picked one up when Matt spoke. “But this one is bigger.”

It also smells slightly of mold. Matt doesn’t have the words to say that, so he points at the nice smelling watermelon again. “Better.”

“K. You’re the one with the senses.” Smooth skin of watermelon against rough skin of pineapple as Bucky places Matt’s watermelon in the trolley. “Sweet potatoes are next.”

Matt’s headphones hang around his neck, but he doesn’t put them on. He screws up his face at the high pitched hum of the fluorescent lights. That and all the smells of food, clashing and mingling in horrible ways, the strange things the air from the chilled section does to the aisles nearby. The way the building makes the sounds echo. The floor designed to make shoes squeal. People with all their noises and smells.

Talking. Some of it about him. Some of them don’t seem to know who he is. Which might be worse. He’s making himself stick out. “Did you see him flinch? I only walked past him.” “Poor guy.” A girl out back has figured it out, and is giving a scarily detailed account of his time in New Delhi to someone who grunts non-committedly.

Lucky’s weight against his legs helps. So does Bucky always staying between Matt and the nearest person.

They get the rest of the fruits and vegetables. Sometimes Matt speaks. Sometimes he doesn’t. They’ll only buy enough for the rest of today, so they can come every day. It’s still a lot of food.

This town is centred in the middle of a lot of private residences whose often well known owners like their privacy. Chances are it wouldn’t survive without them, so most of the locals know to keep their eyes averted and their mouths shut.

They meet up with Sam and Bruce, who add the contents of their baskets to the trolley, then line up to pay. It’s a short queue. Not like some places in the city. Matt clutches Bucky’s elbow too tight when he realises the girl who was talking out back is behind the checkout, but she doesn’t say a word to him.

Matt helps load the shopping into the car they rented, but he’s shaking.

“Think me and Matt will walk back,” Bucky says once the last bag is in the car. “Burn off some energy before lunch.”

“I’ll join you.” Sam’s voice is too casual. “I’d like to show you plants you need to avoid when you’re wandering around out here, if that’s OK Matt?”

Matt nods, still trembling. Voices echo all around him. None of them about him, but he can’t stop an instinctive flinch whenever he hears a peal of laughter, imagining it directed at him.

***

Matt can’t stop giggling.

Sam storms past him into the house. He sighs, sounding put upon, but there’s a note of humour in the tone. “There’s nothing funny about this Murdock.”

Matt nods. There is. Behind him Bucky chuckles too. He agrees.

The heartbeats inside jump with surprise. Steve’s on the sofa bed, Pepper beside him. Natasha, Clint, and Bruce in the kitchen area with things that smell like toasted cheese sandwiches. Salad too.

Another sigh from Sam. “What was it you called this guy Bucky? A brat? Matt Murdock, you are a brat.”

Matt breaks into another stream of giggles.

Metal against metal as Tony walks through the basement door, locking it behind him. His movement stops suddenly. His heart jumps. “Pepper my stray _giggles._ ” He sounds delighted.

A smile in Pepper’s voice. “Are we going to get to know what he did?”

“So I’m walking along, showing him poison ivy and that sort of thing so he can stay away from it. He gets into it and starts pointing at things so I can name them. Then this guy stops in his tracks and points past this bush, and there in the distance is the biggest black bear I’ve ever seen. So I haul him away, somehow not pissing my pants. Matt’s kind of confused, so I explain what happened, ribbing him about it, and now he won’t stop laughing at me.” Sam sounds outraged, but there’s no increase in his heart-rate. It’s fake.

Sam had just been so funny. The annoyance in his voice fake as he explained that the big heartbeat and huffing sounds were a bear, and was Matt trying to give him a heart attack? It’s been a while since someone’s joked with him so freely. Sam had been more shocked than scared. The bear was far away down a slope with water sounds between them and it. There hadn’t been any danger.

It’s nice to laugh.

“Brat,” Bucky says fondly, pushing past him.

Matt grins.

“You guys want a toasted sandwich for lunch?” Natasha calls out to them. “Clint will make one for you.”

“Slave driver,” Clint mumbles, but he doesn’t sound unhappy about it.

“Fruit for after,” Bruce says. “Lots of fruit. Salad too.”

“Sandwich Matt?” Sam asks.

Matt nods.

***

Natasha helps him re-frame the thoughts he’s recorded. He does his second physical therapy session of the day, then he helps Sam make a sweet potato pie.

“You ever made one of these before?” Sam asks as they remove the skin from the boiled sweet potatoes.

Matt shakes his head. There are a lot of sweet potatoes to get through. If there’s one thing he’s learning about the Avengers, it’s that they get through a lot of food.

Sam makes a noise that seems to imply Matt’s entire life has been deprived by not having this experience. “Next you’ll be telling me you’ve never made an apple pie before.”

Another shake of the head. He’d cooked things out of a tin or box when he was with his dad. And the nuns hadn’t had time to spend teaching the blind kid to cook. He’d mainly survived on takeaways or Foggy’s cooking when they lived together. Occasionally he’d helped with the cooking when going to Foggy’s parents for holidays, but there were usually a lot of people and time cooking was spread between them.

A long pause from Sam. When he speaks again his voice is dark. “You and me are going to do a lot of baking.”

Matt’s all right with that.

***

Anxiety thrums under his skin.

He sits cross legged in front of his trunk. It’s not the one he kept his dad’s stuff in. It’s a new one that Karen got him before he came here. To keep the things in he uses to calm down. The marble maze, Koosh ball, Tangle Fuzzy, and Little Foot are in his satchel, but the trunk holds other things. There’s the fleece blanket that smells like the tower. Toothless. All the rest of the dinosaurs that don’t have spikes. And his dad’s boxing robe.

If he holds his dad’s robe close and breathes in deep he can smell a hint of his scent. For a fraction of a second his dad is here with him. But he can’t do that too often. He’s afraid if he does the scent will disappear for good. So he rubs his fingers over the material instead.

A knock at his bedroom door. Sam’s voice. “Matt can I come in?”

Matt nods. Jarvis dictates his reply and the door opens.

Sam’s smooth footsteps move to his side. Fabric shifting as he crouches down. “How are you feeling about meeting him?”

Matt shrugs. Rubs the back of his hand over the fleece.

“Rhodey is nothing like Tony if that’s what you’re worried about.” A pause. “Hey man, I wanted to ask you something. I’ve been waiting for the right time. If it’s not now, then tell me and we can discuss it later, OK?”

Matt nods.

“Two things. Hear me out before you decide anything. And I know man, decisions. But what I’m really after is putting these ideas in your head so you know about them. Ready?”

Matt’s jaw tenses. He nods.

“First thing. Groups. I know you know there are people out there who’ve been through the same kind of trauma you have.” Shifting as Sam sits down next to the trunk. “Sexual assault is a big problem in the military. Bigger than anyone would like to admit. So I’ve got a lot of contacts who run sexual assault support groups both within the VA centre and separate from it. There are even some for only men if you’d be more comfortable with that. Just listen to me on this Matt. I’m not expecting you to decide anything yet. If you did decide to go you wouldn’t have to talk. You could get up and leave whenever you wanted. Someone could go with you to make sure no one stands too close to you. I might even be able to swing letting you listen from a nearby room for a couple of sessions if the group agrees. Just think about it. You decide you want to do that, we’ll make it work. Listening to others and knowing you’re not alone in what you’re going through can be a big deal.”

Matt’s hand finds Toothless. Fiddles with one of his silk ears. His breath comes a little too fast. He concentrates on slowing it.

“Second thing.” Skin against skin as Sam clasps his hands. “If you’re not ready for groups there are a couple of websites you could look at. They’re basically giant support groups on-line. You can register. It’s totally anonymous. No one will know who you are unless you tell them. You don’t need to post if you don’t want to. You can just read other’s posts. You might not be able to reach all the sections that way, but you’ll be able to get an idea about other people who’re going through this. I’ll send the details to your computer, and you can decide whether you want to check them out. OK?”

Matt takes a deep breath. Nods.

Fabric shifting as Sam stands up. “We’ll be outside when you’re ready to come say hello.”

***

Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes smells overwhelmingly of metal.

Pepper stands at his side. They seem to be teasing Tony about something. Clint and Bucky’s heartbeats are fast behind them. Sharp movements. Sparring? It doesn’t sound like any martial arts Matt has heard. They’re also laughing. Messing around?

They stop shortly after Matt steps out of the house with Lucky. Bucky’s uneven footsteps head towards Pepper, Tony, and Colonel Rhodes.

Tony’s voice. “Murdock get over here. Rhodey, and you told me I should never get a puppy. He’s fed, mostly. Watered. Exercised. Really well exercised. I’m doing a good job.”

“Right.” Something sloshing in Rhodey’s hand. “I thought Steve was the puppy?”

“I have two of them now,” Tony says brightly. “I’m a very proud papa? No. That’s too weird. Sugar daddy? No wait, that’s weirder.”

“You’ve never told me where Clint and Natasha fit into this family of yours?” Sipping sounds. Rhodey drinks his lemonade.

Shifting of fabric. Tony shrugs. “I have no clue. They just showed up one day uninvited.”

A smile in Pepper’s voice. “It took him over a week to notice they’d moved in.”

Bucky’s heartbeat moves between Tony and Matt.

Matt walks to Bucky’s side cautiously. No one moves from their positions. That makes the tightness around his chest ease a little.

“Murdock.” Rhodey’s feet stay where they are, but his hand moves in front of him. “It’s nice to finally meet you. You’ve made quite the impression on Tony.”

He has? Slowly Matt extends his hand to shake.

Rhodey grips it, firm but quick. Lets go. “Is it true you found all those people buried in that earthquake?”

Matt shrugs. Presses close to Bucky’s side. Tries to ignore his too fast heart from the handshake. There were other people searching in the earthquake. Matt wasn’t the only one.

“Matt’s being modest,” Pepper says. “He found hundreds. Finding them so fast saved a lot of lives. Steve and Clint among them.”

People died before they could be dug out too. Maybe if Matt hadn’t taken so many breaks - wait. He thinks there’s a negative thought pattern hidden in there. He makes a note to write it in his small computer and ask Natasha about it when they do their re-framing tomorrow.

Sam’s footsteps walk towards them from the house. “Matt. Got something I need you to drink.”

Sloshing of thick liquid against plastic. Some kind of smoothie? Smells like banana and chocolate, but different from the ones Tony makes for him sometimes.

“Here. I doubt it’s going to taste nice. They always put a lot of additives in these weight gain drinks. This one is Complan. Claire dropped some off at the tower to help you gain some weight. Said if you didn’t down at least one a day she’d come down here and force feed you herself. Bright side is it’s chocolate flavor. I mixed it with bananas and other stuff to try and make it taste better.”

Steeling himself Matt takes the bottle. Holds it to his chest with his tethered right hand, and uncaps it with his left. He tries to school the face he makes at the first sip, but it doesn’t quite work. He hates powdered stuff. It never all dissolves, and he’s left with a horrible gritty feeling on his tongue that makes his skin crawl.

“I always liked Complan,” Clint chirps from Pepper’s side. “Strawberries the best.”

Bucky’s metal finger pokes his side. “You start gaining weight again we’ll quit bugging you so much.”

Matt sighs. The worst part is he can’t legitimately complain about it. He lost weight again this week, which isn’t surprising with all the activity. He’s now twenty-six pounds down from what he was when he was first weighed at the tower. Claire’s convinced he’s lost over thirty since the start of this whole thing. Keeping Bucky between him and Rhodey, he forces himself to take another mouthful.

***

Clint’s footsteps behind him. Silent against the undergrowth, then there’ll be a sudden bash crash as he misjudges a step. At least he doesn’t fall on his face this time. “Hey Matt, are we hiding?”

No. He’s practising navigating through the woods while using his cane as little as possible. It’s difficult. Everything is so soft. The city is all hard edges that reflect the sound well. This is a whole new baseline he has to get used to. And yes, maybe he’d learnt most of what he needed to know in the first two hours stumbling around here, but he could always use more practice and -

Matt sighs. Nods. He’s hiding.

“Cool!” Clint sounds enthusiastic. “We should find a tree you can climb. No one ever looks up.”

***

Matt traces Clint’s hand with his fingers, then does his best to copy it. A fist on his sternum.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Now you just move it in a small circle.”

Matt tries it.

“Smaller. Yeah.” A grin in Clint’s voice. “You got it. That one’s ‘sorry.’ Want to go over the alphabet again?”

Matt scrunches up his brow in concentration. Makes the shapes with his left hand.

They’d learnt early on that Matt doesn’t like it when Clint grips his hand, even if it is to help move it into the right position. But he also can’t see most of the signs Clint makes in enough detail to copy them. So they’d settled on this system. Clint makes the sign. Matt traces it, then copies. It works.

A lot of signs need two hands. Thankfully the alphabet isn’t among them, so if worse comes to worse, he can spell out the word he wants to say. That is, if he’s thinking clearly enough to spell it at the time.

“Wow,” Clint says once he’s finished. “It took me weeks to remember all of that. Though to be fair I was a kid at the time. You got it perfect in less than an hour. OK, so we’ve got the alphabet, ‘hungry,’ ‘thirsty,’ and ‘sorry.’ I’m going to be kicked out of the deaf community for saying this, but I don’t see any reason to spend ages teaching you grammar and all that. If you still can’t talk in a few months and need this for lawyering, then yeah. Until then I’m thinking simple words. Better than spending a lot of time learning the intricacies of a language you can make but can’t see.”

Lucky shuffles far below them. They hadn’t climbed as high into the tree as Matt would like. They’d started to, then Clint had almost had a panic attack about the idea of Matt having a panic attack and falling off the top of the large tree to the ground.

Matt freezes. Waves to get Clint’s attention, then makes the ‘P’ sign.

“Oh,” Clint says too loudly. “Pepper.”

Matt makes a shushing motion. Jarvis monitors these woods. He’d assured them he wouldn’t give away their position unless it was an emergency, but none of that will help if Clint gives them away himself.

“I’ll show you my name-sign for her later.” Clint whispers. Fabric against wood as Clint shifts on the large branch. “Psst. Lucky. Go.”

Lucky’s paws pad deeper into the trees away from Pepper’s footsteps.

“Don’t worry,” Clint mouths more than whispers. “No one ever looks up.”

“Boys!” Amusement in Pepper’s voice. “Come down here. I want to talk to you.”

Clint groans. “She looked up.”

***

The last three men to attack Matt are dead. One of the three in custody gave Jessica their names after stonewalling the police. She tracked them down and found dead bodies. The gang they were a part of had a disagreement with another gang and bullets went flying.

Pepper tells him this slowly and gently. Foggy wanted someone to tell him in person instead of over the phone. Pepper couldn’t break the news any more softly, but Matt still can’t breathe.

“Matt.” Her voice is soft, kind, but firm too. “Let’s sit down over here.”

All at once he’s sitting on something rough. Lucky’s cold nose nudging him. Pepper’s paper, blueberry, ink scent in front of him.

Hot rushes through his body, to be replaced by cold a second later. He’s flushed. He’s trembling. Some kind of emotion builds in his chest. He’s not sure what it is, except that it wants to explode out.

“Pepper,” Clint whines. “My friend broke.”

Someone’s screaming. It sounds angry. It’s a while before he realises that he’s the one screaming.

A gentle hand rubbing his arm. Pepper sighs. “Bucky. Looks like we’re going to need you after all.”

In no time at all strong arms wrap around him. Bucky’s heartbeat. Bucky’s words against his head. Matt screams and screams and screams.

***

A disjointed conversation with Steve while everyone but Steve, Bucky, and Matt go out for a meal helps him straighten out his feelings. He uses PECS, the small computer, and sign.

Matt is angry because he wanted justice. He wanted to see them punished for what they did. He wanted their crimes stated. He wanted it declared irrefutably that what they did was wrong. That this was their fault, not his.

Part of him is also scared. Or maybe just in shock. He’s not sure. It seems wrong that it could end like this. It feels like he’s been sprinting for the finish line ever since they arraigned the first three, only to run headfirst into a brick wall instead.

He doesn’t believe that they’re dead. That’s something he keeps to himself because his reasoning is so childish. He doesn’t believe that they’re dead, because in his head they’re monsters, and monsters don’t die that easy.

Bucky unfreezes some of his soup when he refuses to eat anything else, and he sips at it. He’s still curled up tight to Steve’s side on the sofa bed, sipping, when the others arrive back and mill around. Getting out the sweet potato pie Matt and Sam made for desert. Shuffling through the pile of board games.

“Twister!” Clint shouts.

“Jenga,” Natasha counters.

“We have enough people to play both.” Patience in Pepper’s voice. “Everyone, choose one.”

Clint, Tony, Pepper, and surprisingly Bruce choose twister. Bucky decides to be in charge of the wheel. Rhodey, Natasha, Sam, and Steve choose Jenga. Steve shuffling to the edge of the sofa bed gingerly. He pauses partway. “Want to play with us Matt?”

Matt shakes his head. He’s still feeling unsteady. He doesn’t want to get closer to Rhodey. The side of his body he’d been leaning against Steve feels too cold.

He wishes Steve hadn’t moved.

Laughter from the twister group as the game gets underway. It involves alcohol of course. Tony claims drunk twister is the best version of twister. The rest of the craft beer from New Delhi gets passed around. Matt shakes his head when it’s offered his way.

His insides twist. Jarvis has good security. He knows that. There’s a perimeter around Tony’s property to keep people out. The machines in the woods that the team use to run drills double as non lethal defensive weapons. Every inch of the grounds is monitored by Jarvis. No one is getting in. Particularly a group of dead guys who aren’t going anywhere anymore.

Matt rocks back and forth on the sofa bed, marble maze in his hand and Lucky curled up beside him. This feeling will pass, he tells himself. He’s fine. He doesn’t need someone next to him to prove that he’s fine. He’s not that anxious anymore. He’s just - sad - that’s it. He’s sad. Maybe a little scared too. Not much. Lucky would’ve bothered him if he was getting too worked up.

He’s supposed to ask if he needs help. He knows that. He can see why he needs to do that for anxiety, because his reasoning can get wrecked when he gets really anxious and he does stupid things. The same applies to suicidal thoughts. Maybe migraines count too. Maybe it’s OK to admit he’s hurt and accept someone helping him. He’s not too clear on that.

He’s not sure where this sadness comes into it. It’s not like he _needs_ something. He’s not thinking about hurting or killing himself. Is it right to ask for something that he wants? It’s not like anything remotely bad is going to happen if he doesn’t get it. He’ll just stay sad for a while is all. It’ll go away. It always does eventually.

The mattress bounces as Natasha sits down. “Your expression is doing gymnastics. What is it?”

His chest aches. His eyes sting. He’s not sure how to ask. Both Steve and Bucky are focused on their games. When he gets really anxious they pay attention to him. A selfish part of him considers this, and his fist hits his leg.

The room stills. Laughter fades. All at once he feels terrible.

Natasha’s voice, considering. “You’re not anxious. You did that on purpose. You did it to try and get attention.”

Guilt burns in his throat. He blinks rapidly to keep the wet in his eyes from turning into tears. In his head one nun whispers to the other that the Murdock boy acts out to get attention, that they should ignore him instead.

Natasha’s hand touches his arm. “Come on.”

He lets himself be led. They move around the sofa bed to where the twister game continues quieter than it did before.

Natasha tugs his arm once he’s standing next to Bucky’s heartbeat, the man on the floor. “Sit down.”

He sits on the wooden floor.

Fabric shifting as Natasha crouches between him and Bucky. “Bucky, hug Matt and tell him everything’s OK.”

Matt flushes, but Bucky doesn’t hesitate.

Arms around him. Bucky’s heartbeat. Everything feels like it’s finally OK, even before Bucky says the words. “Christ Matty. Everything’s fine.”

Matt relaxes all the tension he didn’t even realise he’d bottled up. It’s stupid. He’d been hugged by Bucky today. He spent a long time close to Steve. But he needed (wanted?) this.

“You idiot,” Bucky says, sounding fond. “Next time you want something like this, just ask. Now, you going to help me direct these clowns? You spin the wheel, I’ll read out what it tells them to do.”

***

“That one,” Clint says with confidence. “Tree at twelve o’clock. Third branch from the bottom.”

Matt considers it. It sounds solid enough. The branch seems wide. It doesn’t smell like damp or moss or worse: thorns. He nods. They’d had a long morning of messing around jumping from branch to branch, or rock or rock, or pretty much anything to anything. Matt managed his run this morning even with a nightmare filled night. Him, Bucky, and Sam jogged and ran to and through the town. The voices around him hadn’t been fun, but Matt had done it. Rhodey had been gone by the time they got back. Then a shower, his book of things to remember, breakfast, therapy with Fiona, boxing, yoga with Bruce and Natasha, sparring with Natasha which was just modified tag with a lot of obstacles.

Then parkouring in the woods with Clint. They’ve been out here for hours. He’s learnt a lot in that time. Number one lesson being that some trees share their space with plants with very sharp thorns. A painful lesson. He’s got the scratches on his hand to prove it.

Clint whoops as he jumps. His shoes barely make a sound as they land on the branch. A feather light thump as he moves away. “You can do this one.”

At least Clint’s mostly got over his fear of what Natasha will do to him if Matt misjudges a fall and breaks yet another bone. Mostly. He does set limits on what Matt can and can’t do. Nothing that needs two hands.

Matt leaps across the gap, landing lightly on the branch. Parkouring out here is completely different from the city. In the city everything is solid and uniformly made. You jump from a few rooftops, you’ve jumped from every rooftop. Fire escapes are similar to each other. Everything is similar to each other. Out here things grow. They’re not mass produced in molds.

He’s learning to pick up subtle variations in shape he hadn’t needed to before. Maybe it will help one day. For now it gives him something to keep his mind and body occupied. Karen texted yesterday before they went to bed. She, Jessica, and Luke are coming down for the weekend. They should arrive any time now. Matt’s not sure if he’s looking forward to it. Karen is nice, but he doesn’t know her new friends.

“Oh!” Clint shouts. Some kind of wild gesture. Pointing? “I bet I can make it across that stream if I do a run up to that branch over there!”

Running water below and in front of the branch Clint’s on. A large tree behind the running water. Several branches extend over the river. They all smell of damp. Matt shakes his head.

“Don’t worry bro.” A grin in Clint’s voice. “I got this.”

***

“I don’t got this,” Clint whimpers as Matt helps him stumble through the woods, back to the house. “I really don’t got this.”

Matt hauls Clint’s arm more securely over his shoulder, trying to keep as much of the man’s weight off his scapular as possible. He’s healing well considering everything. Not as fast as he usually would, but at least he’s still on track to get both plaster and sling off at the six week mark. His ribs only really bother him when he moves wrong. Good news since he’s currently supporting Clint’s weight and the man is taller and heavier than he is.

“I just got over being buried alive.” Clint limps. The movement sounds painful. “Now a sprained ankle. Natasha’s going to tease me Matt. The teasing will be merciless. You think we could - ow - hide this from her?”

Matt turns his head towards Clint, giving him a pointed look.

“You’re right.” Clint huffs. “It’s Natasha. We’re doomed.”

Lucky pads behind them, letting out a high pitched yawn. He seems unphased by the whole thing.

Matt freezes on the edge of the woods. The smell of hot metal and gasoline. A car that’s recently switched its engine off. The scent of new people. Vanilla. Karen. Dirt and whisky. Jessica. Lemon wood polish. A familiar scent. Luke?

Clint’s heart flutters with nerves. “I - ow - can take it from here if you want?”

Matt shakes his head. Steps out of the woods and starts walking towards the house. He’ll need to go shopping soon anyway, and from the feeling of grime against his skin he’ll need a shower first.

Only Luke’s heart beats from the front of the house. The rest must be inside. Matt could head around the back, but that’ll take longer, and each step makes Clint’s muscles clench tight with pain.

Luke’s feet step towards them and Matt flinches back. A moment of silence. Then Luke’s heavy footsteps take two steps backward towards the car, out of the path to the door. His voice rumbles. “Need any help?”

Matt shakes his head.

“No,” Clint answers in a voice high pitched with pain. “We’re fine. Hunky dory. Brilliant. Awesome. Nothing a soft armchair or - no wait - a warm bath can’t fix. Matt throw me in a bathtub. Please?”

As they reach the door it flies open. Jessica’s footsteps march through it. “Thank God this place has Internet otherwise - oh hey mud people. Barnes! Found your wild-child!”

“My what?” Annoyance in Bucky’s voice. Nerves too. His uneven footsteps appear in the doorway. His heart skips surprise, then slows down. Relief? A long pause. “Do I want to ask what happened to you two?”

Movement as Clint shakes his head rapidly.

Bucky sighs, but there’s amusement there. Clint’s weight leaves Matt’s shoulder as Bucky takes him. “Matt, you hurt as well?”

Matt shakes his head. Then hesitates and shows him his hand.

“Guessing there’s cuts or something under all that dirt?” Shifting. A huff from Clint. Bucky tosses the lighter man over his shoulder.

A nod.

“Great.” Sarcasm mixes with the amusement in Bucky’s voice. “We need to go grocery shopping. Go clean up before I hose you down.”

***

“Murdock get over here!” Jessica shouts. “Need to talk to you!”

Hesitating, Matt steps out from behind the tree.

A jump in Jessica’s heart-rate. “Creepy.”

He can hear the others talking in the house. They sound tense. Karen’s trying to convince them to let Jessica try. Bucky’s pointing out how badly he took the news yesterday about the last three men being dead.

He’s been hiding out here ever since lunch. Grocery shopping went OK. A couple of old women talked about him in another part of the store. They mentioned the rape, saying it’s horrible what happens in the city these days. Matt kept it together, but he hadn’t felt like talking to Bucky or Karen after that.

“They don’t think you’re ready for this,” Jessica says, voice blunt. “But it concerns you and it concerns what happened to you, so I think you need to hear it. You know why I decided to come down here this weekend?”

Matt’s heart beats too fast. Lucky leans against his legs. He shrugs a shoulder. He doesn’t want to know.

“It took me a long time and every trick I had to unearth the statement you made to Detective Kelly about the attack. Eventually I had to track down the Detective herself and guilt her into finding it. Even she had difficulty. Every turn I take in this case there’s someone or something to slow me down. Detective Kelly’s dragging her heels. I think she’s being threatened, or bribed maybe. Think she’d jump through just about any hoop if it got her a promotion. Had to twist her arm to get her to find me the tape, and when I watched it I realised how long this has been going on.”

Matt’s back hits the tree behind him. His breath comes too fast.

“They’ve been trying to get you to drop this investigation from the start, haven’t they?”

Pushing himself away from the tree, he almost stumbles over Lucky as he walks deeper into the woods, away from Jessica. He doesn’t want to hear this.

Jessica’s feet don’t follow him, but her voice does. “You can’t run from this Matt. I know it’s fucking tempting to try. But you can’t run from something like this. It all fits together. What that bastard Wright did. The threat you received. Even this trumped up case against you and the guard not warning you about the video being played during court. Someone’s trying to get you to drop the case. Trying to discredit you in case that doesn’t work. They dragged you into the limelight, but they don’t want to give the rapists their turn. And it’s not over, because I don’t believe for one minute that those dead gang-bangers are really the ones who raped you.”

Tough springy branches seem to barge into his legs. He falls backwards, hitting the undergrowth. Hot rushes through his body, quickly followed by freezing. He shakes. He can’t breathe. Lucky licks at his face.

“Shit.” Rustling of undergrowth as Jessica moves towards him. Stops. Fabric shifting as she crouches down. “Shit. Sorry. What can I do to help?”

Matt heaves himself up into a sitting position. Concentrates on his breathing as he strokes Lucky.

“There’s a method I use,” she says after what sounds like a long time. “Saying street names I grew up on as a kid. That works. Well, it did work. It doesn’t do the job so good after the guy who raped me brought me back to that house. Some fucked up attempt to control me I think. He was always good at that.”

Matt’s hand wavers before he moves back to playing with the fur around Lucky’s neck. From the sound of her heart and the density of her muscles he wouldn’t be surprised if she’s as strong as Steve. The surprise shocks some of the panic out of him. Stroking Lucky helps with most of the rest.

“This is a total clique.” Jessica barks a sarcastic laugh that screams fake. “The old ‘hey I was raped too’ spiel. We could be on a Hallmark movie right now. Except you’d have to be a young attractive woman of course. No one else ever gets raped on television. Fucking misogynistic dirt-bags. And I’d need a better story than he mind controlled me into it.”

If Matt could say anything, he still wouldn’t be sure what to say right now. He tilts his head at her to show he’s listening. He can at least give her that.

“I never got justice for what he did to me. Not the kind I wanted. So I want to try to give you that justice. That’s why I’m pushing.” Skin against fabric. She grips her knees. “Look. We can fight this. We can make sure they don’t get away with it. We can uncover whoever’s pulling the strings. I’m not expecting you to stand up and fight with us. One month after getting away from him I was ready for exactly jack-shit. But I’d like to keep you in the loop so I don’t feel like an asshole talking about this stuff behind your back. And maybe you could answer a question or two sometime so I’m not chasing my tail on things I don’t need to?”

Matt slumps his shoulders. He’s not sure. Lately it seems like every little thing can trigger a flashback. And sure, Fiona says that’s a good sign. A sign he’s not repressing as much as before. The flashbacks don’t hit him so hard. It’s easier to ground himself. And sometimes he gets fragments of memories that he can’t remember hearing before. But he still hates getting triggered. This sounds like a lot of getting triggered.

“Wish I could offer some sage advice. You know from someone’s who’s made it out the other side of PTSD. Truth is you’re going to have to look to someone else for that. You and me are both fucking messed up Murdock. All I can offer you is this. I learnt recently that when you get faced with problems, you can ignore them, or you can do something about them. So which is it going to be?”


	31. Chapter 31

The truth is painful.

Matt’s heard most of it, but he hasn’t really thought about it. Like his flashbacks he’s pushed it out of his mind.

Wright is key to this, but Jessica says he’s just a piece of the puzzle. He doesn’t seem to have any friends or relatives who could be any of the last three rapists. If he was one of them himself Matt would know. So no motive to try and make Matt drop the case except a hatred formed from his friend losing his job because of Fisk. But that can’t only be it.

Wright doesn’t have the influence to assign himself to a case from a different department like he did when he was temporarily part of Matt’s rape case. Someone else did that. The complaints filed against him for the physical assault that day in the police station, and what little Matt could say about the verbal assaults, are still pending. Misfiled and buried. Wright couldn’t do that by himself.

Wright’s whereabouts are currently unknown. He’s down as taking vacation, but Jessica hasn’t been able to find out where.

There’s the threat against Foggy. The one Matt received on his computer that day. That could be Wright. Jessica’s not sure. Whoever it was bugged Olivia’s home with surveillance equipment used by the police. It’s possible that Wright got hold of it by himself, but unlikely. No luck tracing the phone that organised the operation.

Jessica said the biggest clue in that threat was that they used Olivia’s details. Not Fiona, or Claire, Karen, or anyone else. If they’d somehow watched her coming and going from the tower, which Tony says is impossible, and taken the time to ID her among the hundreds of others, then why didn’t they do the same to the others? A nurse coming and going after Matt arrived at the tower would be just as suspicious. Or Karen, who with a bit of digging they could find out was once saved by Daredevil and was employee of Nelson and Murdock.

The only people who would have access to Olivia’s identity before any of the others is the police, who receive a copy of her report after each session.

The guard who didn’t warn Matt about the video had a brother. He lost his job and went to jail over the Fisk thing. Not the same cop as Wright’s friend. Doesn’t even work in the same department. None of them seemed to be friends. But it’s still a link.

The guard says he did it to get some kind of revenge for his brother. Jessica points out that as soon as Matt lost it, the guard started saying to anyone who would listen that Matt was crazy and needed to be locked up. She thinks he wanted Matt to lose it. It’s doubtful he thought Matt’s incident would happen on the scale it did, but he did want Matt to show some kind of ‘crazy’ behaviour that he could use to discredit him. It’s possible he was planning on filming it or talking about it to the press if the incident had stayed confined to the building.

Then there’s the trumped up charges.

That requires a lot of power. Jury tampering possibly. It’s hard to tell. Given some of the bad press some of the newspapers and on-line media have spread around there’s also the possibility that whoever is behind this is trying to steer the public mindset away from the rape and towards Matt being a criminal.

It’s a lot. He’s feeling hounded enough as it is without some unknown person or persons targeting him and his friends.

Matt waits until he’s sure they’ve finished watching the footage of Wright verbally harassing him before he goes inside the house. He has to walk straight back out again because the air is choked with anger.

He sits down on the wooden deck in front of the house. Presses a hand to his ear and the other side of his head against his knee. Hums. It doesn’t block the voices from the house out.

Tony. Voice tense. “How long after it was this?”

Bruce’s voice. A growl to it. “Not long after he came to the tower. Maybe a week after they attacked him.”

Tony swears. “I didn’t enter his profile into security. I saw him manhandle Murdock at the station, but I didn’t think he’d be as cocky as to stroll into the tower. Why the fuck did Murdock agree to speak with him?”

“It’s Matt,” Natasha says as if that explains everything.

“He didn’t have the first clue about asking for help back then.” A growl in Bucky’s voice too. “Probably thought he could push his way through it on his own. No fucking wonder he trashed his kitchen that night.”

“Sorry.” Bruce’s shuffling footsteps moving to the back of the house. “I’m going to need a minute.”

Pepper’s voice. Angry. “If Matt would’ve said something-”

“How?” Steve asks softly. “From what Foggy said Matt tried to tell him but wasn’t able to give the full picture. Put yourself in his shoes. Could you repeat the things Wright just said? Would you find that easy to repeat words that are going to trigger you when you think about them?”

“Fine.” Tony’s quick feet are pacing. “But if he’d said something when he heard it was Wright, I could’ve kicked him out of the building so fast. All he needed to do was say a word to Jarvis and-”

“He couldn’t even talk to Jarvis back then.” Sound of hair moving. Karen shakes her head. “He only talked to me and Foggy, and that was only some of the time. And Matt is closed off at the best of times. Foggy put so much effort to try and get him to open up. He said feelings talks were like trying to squeeze water from a stone. What you’ve done getting him to communicate is amazing, but it doesn’t come to him easily. Back then he was gone eighty percent of the time and guarded for the other twenty. He couldn’t ask for help. He didn’t know how.”

Natasha. “You don’t shrug off years of conditioning just like that. It took time. He’s still working on it. Back then in that mental state he wasn’t capable of it.”

The front door opens. Sam’s footsteps. The door closes. Footsteps on wood as Sam walks to Matt’s side. Fabric shifting as he crouches down. “Am I calm enough for you?”

It’s an effort to nod his head. He keeps his ears covered. The headphones are in his bag. He could use them, but he doesn’t want to be that vulnerable.

“Anxious?”

Matt takes a shaky breath. Lucky noses at him, but curled up like this there’s only so much of him the dog can lick.

Sam’s voice stays calm. “Can you get your sheet?”

The plastic sheet is in the satchel. Separate from the PECS book for easy access. Moving into a cross legged position, he takes it out with fumbling fingers. One side has common interventions for anxiety. The other has ones for depression. Placing it on his lap he feels for the anxiety side, then tears off the PECS card for throwing ice. A moment of hesitation and he tears off the card for xanax too.

There’s a bone deep anxiety underneath all the urges to hit and hurt himself. It started the moment Luke and Jessica came, and he’s not sure it will go until they leave. He can get rid of some of the new tension from the things Jessica told him. But that underneath tension is going to keep rising up again. He can’t afford to be so on edge when he knows they’re going to keep discussing his case.

Sam doesn’t say it’s a bad idea, which makes some of the anxiety over making a decision fade. “Lucky’s got your pills. Can you get to them?”

The zip on the little pocket attached to Lucky’s harness is difficult for his trembling fingers to navigate, but eventually they manage it. He swallows the half pill.

“Good job.” Warmth in Sam’s voice. “I’ll go get some ice. Can you find a good wall of the house to throw ice at? One without windows.”

***

“I don’t get it.” Luke’s voice rumbling. “If xanax works this well, why don’t you take it all the time?”

Matt leans back against Steve’s side on the sofa bed. Fleece blanket from the tower over his knees. The Koosh ball in his hand. It’s a ball made up of hundreds of tiny rubber strings pointing outward from the centre. It feels funny as it rolls back and forth from fingers to elbow and back. It’s hard to describe it. It’s almost a tickling sensation.

“Mind if I tell him Matt?” Sam asks from one of the many armchairs.

Matt shrugs, concentrating on the Koosh ball. He doesn’t like squeezing it. With his delicate senses that makes the rubber pieces stab. But rolling it is good. Sometimes throwing it up and down is good, but he prefers covering his hand with his hoodie sleeves when he does that, to cushion the impact to his palm.

“Benzodiazepines are addictive. Physically and psychologically.” Fabric against fabric as Sam shifts forward in his chair. “He has the option of taking them full time until his antidepressants start working, but his tolerance is likely to increase quickly. Getting off them would be difficult. He’d go into withdrawal if we didn’t decrease the dosage slowly enough. That can get nasty, even dangerous. Psychologically he needs to learn coping mechanisms that don’t rely on medication. So he needs to spend time off the medication to practice them. The xanax is only for the times when his coping mechanisms aren’t going to do the job.”

Jessica’s voice from a chair near Luke’s. “Me, I just use alcohol.”

Tony laughs.

“A terrible coping mechanism.” A smile in Sam’s voice. “And one we’re not trying to encourage. Short term it might help, but long term alcohol is a depressant. It’ll make things worse.”

Natasha claps her hands together from the same armchair Clint sits in.

Matt throws the Koosh ball her way. Smack of rubber against skin as she catches it.

“My sources will look for Wright.” Determination in Natasha’s voice. “They’ll turn up something.”

Movement as the ball comes back his way. Matt catches it. A clap from Sam. Matt tosses the ball in his direction. The distraction helps.

“We have enough security to cover Olivia, Foggy, and any others we think might need it.” Tapping. Something humming with electricity in Pepper’s hands. “I’ll be heading back to the city tomorrow, so I’ll be able to keep an eye on it.”

“Jarvis and the rest of us have puppy covered.” Tony claps as soon as Sam sends the ball back to Matt. Matt tosses it his way.

“Karen’s going to be moving in with my friend,” Jessica says. “Trust me. Anyone wants to get at her there, they’ll need a tank to do it.”

“And Trish knows a great Krav Maga instructor who comes right to the apartment.” Karen claps. Matt sends his recently returned ball her way. “Since someone still hasn’t made good on his pinky promise to teach me to fight.”

“Dude.” Movement. Tony shakes his head? “A pinky promise is a sacred act. You can’t go back on it. That’s like breaking a hadron collider level bad luck.”

“I was buried alive!” Clint whines.

Flesh against flesh. Natasha smacks him. “You can’t keep using that old excuse.” Joking in her voice.

“There were no faces of any of the guys in the video.” Hidden caution in Jessica’s tone. She’s trying to act more casual with this topic than she feels. “We have their voices. Other than that, not much identifying information to go on. The girl they attacked. Her face shows up clearly. I haven’t found her yet, but-”

Matt shakes his head, trying in vain to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as he wonders if Jessica saw the video. Her words imply she did.

Steve’s voice behind him. Soft. “Matt, what is it?”

Matt places the returned Koosh ball by his side on the sofa bed. Picks up the small computer. His hand pauses over the keyboard for a long time before he types. ‘Don’t find her.’ He can’t bring himself to send something so personal to Jessica, so he shows it to Steve instead.

Steve relays the words.

Jessica snorts. It sounds fake. “I know your descriptions make sense to you Murdock, but to everyone else they don’t mean anything. The Josh guy’s descriptions are almost as hard to work with. We could get her descriptions. That could help us find them. And Foggy says she could act as a witness.”

Matt shakes his head. She doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this. If she hasn’t come forward it’s because she doesn’t want to. If the press find her, her name could be spread all over the news like his was.

“Shelve that for now,” Bucky says slowly. “Come back to it later.”

“Fine.” Jessica doesn’t sound happy about it. “You gave two descriptions. They take a little reading between the lines, but they don’t seem to match any of the guys we have in custody, or the dead gang-bangers. None of them fit the build and fitness levels of the first one. None of them have a knee injury like the second one. Are those two of the ones we’re missing?”

Matt blinks rapidly. Nods. Steve’s heartbeat thumping against his back helps.

“Matt?” Steve’s voice vibrates through his back. “Do you want to speak to this with Jessica alone?”

Matt shakes his head. Jessica’s still a stranger. He doesn’t want to be alone with her.

Jessica, sounding unsure. “Can you give me a description of the others?”

It takes a long time to type. It’s not good. He can’t think about it enough to put in the effort to make it good. So he writes what’s instinctive. ‘1) Bubblegum, 2) Knee injury, 3) Old spice, 4) Dirt, 5) Skittles, 6) Cocaine.’ He can’t send it to Jessica. He can’t show it to Steve. Instead he leans forward and hands it to Bucky who sits on the other side of the sofa bed. Bucky’s still the safest.

Wet in his voice as Bucky reads them out.

A frown in Jessica’s voice. “You’re like a bad movie villain. The puzzler. OK. So cocaine is obvious. We have him.”

“Vasquez’s an avid gardener,” Karen says from one of the beanbags. “Dirt could be him.”

“None of them wore old spice. And one and two you described match one and two here, and we know it’s not them. So skittles is our third guy in custody.” Jessica’s breath stutters. “Wait. Murdock. Why is there an order?”

Bucky’s heart skips. “It’s the same order you used when you described them before.”

It’s the same order he used to describe them in from the very start. It’s the same order his mind tried to put them in when the lineups presented them in a different order. His heart speeds up. There’s a faint memory. He had a flashback once. In it he remembered the third one who raped him. He’d smelled of old spice.

Is that it? This whole time he’s been mentally putting them in the order of who raped him first? His skin crawls. His stomach turns over. How can he do that when he doesn’t have those memories? The mattress jumps as Lucky crawls towards him.

“Matt?” Steve’s hand on his shoulder.

Matt curls into the back of the sofa. Places a hand over his ear.

***

People. Noises.

It’s a small diner. A line of tables with a leather couch each side. Sam says the couches are red. The hard floor is checkered black and white. There’s a long bar with matching red stools.

Each table seats four. Matt sits next to the odd reflection of sound-waves that means window. Bucky sits next to him, blocking him from the rest of the diner. They’re at the end of the line of tables. A wall at their backs. Steve sits opposite Matt. His wheelchair folded up next to Sam who sits opposite Bucky.

The next table along seats Karen and Clint opposite Natasha and Bruce. Then Tony and Pepper opposite Jessica and Luke.

Matt hadn’t gone out yesterday evening, so they’d persuaded him to come out this evening. This week in the Catskills is about helping him to become used to public places in a less intimidating environment than the city. Every morning they’ll run through the town, getting used to the sounds of people moving about. Then back again for grocery shopping. Then hopefully back again for some kind of public activity in the evening.

There’s a family sitting in the table closest the door. A man, a woman, and two children. Another table sits a group of five teenagers. No one else.

The menu is laminated so he doesn’t stand a chance of reading it. Sam reads it out to him, and Clint makes loud recommendations to everyone. Apparently the burgers here are amazing.

Matt flinches back as far as the seat will let him when the woman comes to take their order. She’s young. Possibly too young to be doing this job. It’s hard to tell. He can only guess at age from voice and smell. She’s a teenager. He gets that much.

The sound of chewing gum. It stops whenever she waits for someone to give their order. She takes each order in turn, their voices saying what they want so smooth and easy. When she gets to him, he seriously considers hiding under the table with Lucky, or maybe throwing himself at the window and seeing if he can dive through it. Anything to get out of being the centre of attention.

“He’ll have a burger. Nothing on it,” Sam says smoothly. He sounds so charming. “Fries and a glass of water.”

“K,” she pops her gum. Reads back their orders, then leaves.

“Breathe pal.” Bucky nudges his side. “What number are we on?”

Matt pries his hand from the edge of the table to answer. Three fingers.

“OK.” Seriousness in Sam’s voice. “You get to four and we leave. For now focus on your breathing. You can use your headphones, and Lucky has another dose of xanax if you need it.”

“You don’t have to talk to anyone.” Steve’s heart beats true. “If anyone tries to talk to you, we’ll deal with it. And you can stim if you want. Anyone complains we’ll deal with that too.”

Matt curls into into the corner of the leather seat, listening to the noise the wind makes outside as it brushes softly over the window. Things are easier to cope with curled up. He’s tempted to curl close to Bucky’s side, but he knows if he does that then his stupid startle response might make him hide behind or burrow into Bucky. It’s happened before when he’s spooked. He’s starting to get used to the fact that he’s allowed to seek contact when he wants it, and Foggy, Steve, and Bucky aren’t going to flinch away or think badly of him, but he’d prefer to try not to act like a scared two year old in a public place.

He plays with the marble maze as everyone talks. Jessica and Luke don’t talk much. Jessica adds in sarcastic comments every now and again. Tony and her get caught up in what sounds like some kind of snark war. Luke only really talks when asked something directly, and his answers are short and polite. He and Pepper talk about the bar he recently lost and their experiences running businesses.

Steve and Sam start up a conversation with Bucky about his recent computer science exam, and how the rest of his degree is going. “I fell behind a little. Y’know,” Bucky says. “But I think I’m all caught up now. I did a lot of pre-reading before I enrolled so I think this first year’s going to be OK. It’s the years after that I’m worried about.”

“You’ll be fine.” A smile in Sam’s voice. “You’ve got super-soldier boosted braincells like Steve.”

Bucky scoffs. “And look at all the stupid ass decisions he makes.”

Sam hums consideringly. “You’ve got a point.”

“Hey!” Steve laughs, which turns into a groan as he jostles something. He’s healing amazingly fast. No issues with his breathing anymore. The brace on his wrist is off most of the time. From what Matt can tell his ribs and chest still seem to be tender, and his pelvis and legs still haven’t finished healing. They’re in a giant cast from waist to ankles that makes him shuffle oddly and need the wheelchair to get around.

Matt freezes in place every time the girl comes back to drop off someone’s order. Lucky places his head on Matt’s leg, and that helps a little.

“I got it,” Bucky says. Flesh against ceramic as he takes the plate from the girl. Ceramic against table as he places it in front of Matt. Good, because Matt’s not sure how he would’ve coped if the girl leaned in close, her eyes watching him. “Here pal. Eat up.”

Matt’s stomach turns over. He’s not hungry.

Sam seems to understand. “Matt. Anything you don’t eat we’ll pack up and you can have it at the house.”

Matt nods, focusing on his breathing. The table of teenagers lets out a loud peal of laughter and he flinches hard, hand clutching the marble maze.

Bucky’s voice, soft. “Laughing need to go on your list?”

It feels like a truck is parked on his chest. It’s hard to breathe. One of the teens makes some kind of noise. The rest of the table bursts out laughing. He flinches, tucking his knees to his chest as if that might block out some of the sound. His instincts tell him to curl up. Hide. But there’s nowhere to hide.

“I know your mind is telling you you’re in danger right now, but you’re safe.” Sam’s voice is calm. “They’re too far away to see or hear us. And you’ve got me, Steve, and Bucky here. Think you can hang on a little longer, or do you want to go?”

Scraping of the fifth teen’s stool as he gets up. The rest of them get up too. It’s hard to work out whether their increased height means they can see him or not. He can hear the placement of the furniture, about how tall they are and guess, but he’s not sure. It’s hard to be certain about line of sight when his way of perception is so different to theirs.

He has to get out.

Bucky’s arms wrap around him when he tries to push past. “OK pal. We’re going. Just let me get up. I’ll take you out the back way.”

Shocked breathing. Words. Change of air flow as Bucky guides him through a door, then another one. Soothing words from Bucky. Then they’re in the open air. Matt’s crouched on the ground, just trying to breathe.

Lucky licks his face. This time it doesn’t help.

It lasts long enough that he can’t feel his hands and feet. Long enough that his chest feels so tight and painful that he wonders if this is a heart-attack instead of a panic attack. The world around him narrows to the grimy tarmac beneath him, Lucky’s nudges, Bucky’s arm around his shoulders, and the sound of Bucky’s voice. Everything else is too fuzzy and distant to make out.

Bucky moves his hand. He can only tell there’s a pill in it when it’s guided to his mouth. Somehow he must swallow it between gasping and choking on the water Bucky gives him.

Bright panic stays lit up in his mind. Everything flashes in and out of existence. A voice. Female. He knows it. Karen. That’s it. Karen. “We decided to come with you. We brought your food.”

Bucky’s voice. Vibrating through him. “Give us a few minutes for the xanax to kick in.”

Matt’s body is a mass of flashes of numbness and tingling. He takes in his position in bits and pieces of feeling. Bucky’s legs beneath him, keeping him mostly off the ground. Bucky’s chest pressed to his side. Bucky’s arms around him, holding him up. Wet on his cheeks. The smell of salt. Probably from the pain more than anything else.

“Can I?” Karen’s footsteps.

“Not yet.” Bucky shifts his arms around him. “Wait for him to get a bit more with it. He’ll startle if he doesn’t recognise you.”

A nose nudges his shoulder. Lucky. Unhooking his fingers from Bucky’s sleeve, he reaches out toward the dog. Finds empty air instead. But soon that cold wet nose nudges his hand, moving so there’s smooth fur beneath his hand. He tries to figure out how to stroke the dog.

“There you are Matt.” Relief in Bucky’s voice. “You know where you are?”

There was a diner and laughter. He digs up the memories, focusing on them and chasing away the different set of laughter that echoes in the back of his head. A nod.

“Good pal. Good.” Bucky’s arms stay wrapped around him, loose enough that he knows they’ll fall away at the slightest movement. “When you’re ready we’ll go back to the house. Me, you, Karen, and Jessica.”

***

“Idiot blocked me in,” Jessica grumbles when they’re almost at the car, Bucky’s arm keeping him upright, and Karen doing her best to help him wipe his face.

The xanax is chasing the panic away. It leaves him feeling tired and shaky. Either from the sedative or the panic attack. He’s not sure.

“This is hell for you, isn’t it?’ Karen asks softly. “You’re up, you’re down. You’re not sure whether you’re up or down. It’s like your moods are on a roller-coaster, and you’ve no clue when something’s going to trigger a switch.”

Mood swings. Fiona says they’re common in PTSD. Sometimes he’ll find something that lights a spark of happiness inside him, and it’s such a rare feeling among all the mind-numbing panic and sadness that he’ll grab hold of the feeling and try not to let it go. Then there are the triggers. They’re everywhere. They’re even in his head. He can trigger something just by thinking of the wrong thing. Then no matter what he was feeling before, he’ll snap from that straight to extreme anxiety or deep depression.

Karen’s right. It’s like a roller-coaster. He’s always hated roller-coasters.

Footsteps across tarmac. Walking towards them. Five sets. Young. Teenagers. The same ones from the diner. “Hey, is he sick?”

“Yeah he’s sick.” Bucky’s heart speeds up. Right. He has problems with anxiety too. “But we got him. Don’t worry.”

“Hey, you were right,” another of the kids says. Another male. Scent says they’re all male. “It’s the guy from the video. Daredevil. So cool.”

Matt flinches. It’s hard to tell exactly how old they are, but scent says they’re still teens. Aren’t they too young to be talking about a video where a guy gets raped?

“I saw the video. The whole thing.” Boasting. An older voice than the others. Nearer the end of his teens. Matt thinks he hears a change in the pattern of his heart. A lie. It’s impossible to tell what about. Is he lying about seeing the video. Or did he watch some of it, and is lying about seeing the whole thing? “I bet I could take him.”

“Lay off him,” one of the younger voices says. “Daredevil’s a hero.”

“My dad says he’s nothing but a criminal.”

“I’m the one that watched the video,” the older one says self-importantly. “I know what Daredevil is. He’s nothing but a-”

“So you watched the video did you?” Fake calm in Karen’s voice. It’s a contrast to her pounding heart. To everyone’s pounding heart including Matt’s.

“Yeah.” A sneer in the older teen’s voice. Some of the other kids take a step backward as if trying to distance themselves from him. “What you going to do about it?”

Jessica’s footsteps move closer to the kids, between them and Matt. A smile in her voice. It doesn’t sound friendly. “A small town like this. How long do you think it’ll take to track down this asshole’s name Blondie?”

Karen’s footsteps move next to hers. “For an expert PI like you? Half a day tops.”

Awe in one of the kid’s voice’s. The rest of their heartbeats speed up. “You’re a PI?”

“An expert PI,” Karen corrects. “She has to be to be hired by the Avengers.”

One of the kids may have a heart attack if their heart-rates increase at this rate. “The Avengers hired you?”

“To protect their privacy and that of their friend’s while they’re having a nice little holiday down here.” Beeping as Jessica unlocks the car. “Hear privacy’s pretty important to your town. Can’t wait to see the look on your parent’s faces when they realise their sweetums pissed off one of the biggest investors in their hospital and school.”

Karen’s footsteps move to the car. Click as the door opens. She fiddles with something inside. “Not to mention their son watched a video of a rape, then joked about it in front of the victim.”

The older teen’s heart goes even faster. “I didn’t know what it was.”

So he did watch it. Matt grips his satchel. The xanax stops the panic ratcheting too high, but he’s shaky.

“Like they’re going to care about that,” Jessica scoffs. “Beat it. And if I see a single facebook post about this-”

Fast footsteps as most of the kids scurry off. The older teen doesn’t move. Wet in his voice. Choked. “You can’t control me.”

Karen steps away from the car. “But she can vaporise you with her laser eyes.”

Jessica barks a laugh. “Don’t piss your pants kid. I don’t have laser eyes.” Creaking of metal as she lifts the car and drags it out of the space it’s blocked into. No increased breathing. It doesn’t cost her any effort. “Where do you want this?”

“Oh, just over there I think,” Karen says casually. “Don’t crush the other cars this time.”

“Bossy.” Creaking as the wheels turn. Jessica’s heavier footsteps move closer to the kid.

Skid of rubber over tarmac. The kid almost falls over as he runs away.

***

The video is 1 hour, 28 minutes, 6 seconds long.

Fiona explains this to him as he’s sitting on his bed during their session on Sunday morning. He’d drifted in and out of sleep from the moment they’d entered the car last night. At least one nightmare he remembers last night. This one was about the third one, Old Spice, and wanting to curl up and hide. And begging. He always begs during that dream. Then up and a run with Sam, Bucky, and Karen. A shower. Breakfast. Fiona.

Somehow he’d managed to use the small computer to ask about the video. He’s not sure what he wants to know exactly. He’s just not comfortable with so many people knowing what’s in it, when he doesn’t.

The video consists of several clips ranging from a few minutes to over twenty minutes long. There are timestamps, like the men behind it wanted to show the world how long they had the devil trapped. The video opens at 11.07 pm at night with the screaming girl. It ends when they walk away at 06.34 in the morning.

“You were in a state of constant terror for over seven hours,” Fiona’s voice says from the laptop at the foot of his bed. “You were completely helpless and at the mercy of people who used that to their full advantage. Are you starting to understand why this is having such a big impact on you?”

He’s not sure. Maybe.

“I haven’t mentioned details about the video because I didn’t want to influence your statement. Since you’re no longer making one, I can tell you some things if you think they’ll help. Do you think they’ll help?”

Matt’s hand shakes. He’s not sure. His fingers find the keyboard of the small computer. ‘Everyone knows but me.’

“Not everyone,” Fiona says. “But I can see why it seems that way. You have no way of knowing who watched it and who didn’t. If you don’t find out what’s on the video, you’ll always be wondering how much they know. It must make people pretty scary to be around.”

Matt nods. His hand tightens on the small computer.

“If you want to do this, I’m willing to help you. But we do this at your pace.” A small smile in her voice. “Your real pace. Not the one you think you should be doing. I have a summary of events here. I can’t tell how concise it is. I can watch the video if you want to make sure you know everything. But I think the summary will keep us busy for a long time. There’s a lot here I don’t think you’re ready to hear. We’ve got a lot of work to get there. What number are you on?”

Matt thinks carefully. Raises two fingers. Almost three. Very close to three, but he doesn’t want to change the topic yet.

“OK. How about this? I give you one event that happened. Then we talk about something different.”

Matt nods, tensing.

“Take a deep breath. Come on. I want you as calm as possible. I know you know these breathing exercises better than I do.” A pause for him to breathe and force himself to relax. “Before they walked away, they urinated on you.”

Matt blinks several times searching for some spark of memory. There’s nothing.

“Take another deep breath. When you’re ready we’re going to talk about your social anxiety. I want you to try and explain what thoughts were going through your head last night.”

Matt tries to explain. It’s a jumbled mass of things. Panic mostly. Fiona asks questions. She’s better at getting to the bottom of his feelings than Steve is.

The laughter was a double trigger. It triggered some kind of flashback to the men who laughed as they hurt him. It also triggered his social anxiety, which boils down to a fear of being judged.

A lot of people saw him in a very vulnerable state, and Fiona explains that now he’s scared everyone he meets will judge him by that.

“It’s difficult,” Fiona says. “Most people with social anxiety feel that everyone is watching them when no one is. In your case, you may have a few people watching you, but I think it’s a smaller number than you think. We’ll be using the same kind of tactics. Think critically about the situation you’re in. Isn’t it more likely that a random person in the street just wants to get where they’re going, and isn’t thinking something negative about you? And if you’re sure they are thinking something negative about you, then ask yourself if it matters. Why should the opinion of this person who doesn’t even know you matter?”

When she says it like that, it does seem odd that Matt’s getting so worked up about it. He’s dealt with people thinking negative things about him before because of his blindness. Trying to help him cross a road. Or being outraged that someone let him out on the streets without a minder to look after him. Like he’s not a grown man capable of looking after himself, or at least he was before this.

“We’ll work on it,” Fiona says. “It takes time to develop a different thinking pattern.”

***

“I haven’t heard any Captain America sized crashes,” Foggy says hopefully from Karen’s tablet.

“No,” Matt says quietly. “He’s still - uh - he’s still…”

“Walking.” Skin against fur as Karen rubs Lucky’s tummy. Technically she’s not supposed to be stroking him while he’s on duty. But he’s on duty all the time except when they let him run around during their jog.

And Matt’s feeling OK. He’d had a good session with Natasha before everyone but Karen, Matt, Bucky, Steve, Clint, Natasha and Tony left on various hikes. They’d played Grandmother’s footsteps, using various objects from eggshells to bubble-wrap to make it more difficult. Matt’s good at being stealthy already, but he’d learnt a trick or two. He’d taught Natasha some too.

It’s his gracefulness he needs to work on. He’s plenty graceful with objects, but when it comes to reacting to people he falls short of where Natasha says he could be. More sparring with people not actively trying to kill him will help with that. He still hasn’t tagged Natasha, but he’ll get there. He’s making her work up a sweat at least.

Natasha is practising gymnastics routines on the extensive equipment outside, while Clint cheers. Tony now only exists as noises of machinery downstairs.

“Wait,” Bucky says from in front of the sofa bed where they’ve cleared all the chairs except the hanging sling one Matt likes. “Are you leading or am I leading?”

Steve laughs, but it’s strained with effort. “We’re not slow dancing Buck.”

Their heartbeats are close together. Steve’s raised with the effort of walking across the room. The plaster on his legs and pelvis came off this morning in Tony’s workshop. Four days and his shattered legs and pelvis are mostly mended.

Matt flexes the fingers on his casted arm. Healing factor would come in handy.

“I’m leading.” A smirk in Bucky’s voice. “Come on old timer. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Shuffling. Steve moves like an arthritic old grampa. Then the mattress jumps underneath Matt as Steve flops next to him and Karen.

“I give your performance a four out of ten,” Karen says. “Very cute. Not enough dancing.”

“We weren’t dancing,” Steve groans. He seems to be sprawled on his back on the bed.

“That’s why you only get four out of ten,” Karen replies.

“I’m a ten out of ten dancer.” Bucky sounds offended. “Mr I had a shattered pelvis four days ago dragged me down. Now, if you saw me with someone who can actually dance…”

“Natasha?” Matt suggests. “Or Foggy?”

“Wait.” Foggy sounds confused. “What am I getting roped into?”

Karen claps her hands making Matt jump. “Sorry Matt.” Excitement in her voice. “We could see Bucky Barnes and Black Widow dance. That would be amazing. I could video it!”

“That would be epic.” Foggy sounds distracted. “They’re both awesome dancers. Dance Central said so. Although I’m an awesome dancer too. I don’t know why my name is being ignored. Hey, found one. Ready Matty?”

Matt shifts on the sofa bed, rubbing his fluffy socks along Lucky’s side. “OK.”

“TinyMuse who declares herself part of savedaredevil posted some pictures of her helping the homeless in New York. She says the existence of daredevil is a message to everyone in New York to look out for each other. ‘Even without super-hearing we can all see the suffering in our city. Every day we walk past people who need help. He chose not to ignore it, so I choose not to ignore it either.’” An intake of breath from Foggy. “Jesus. I think you inspired a whole new movement here Matt. This ‘listentothecity’ tag has a lot of entries. Fund-drives for homeless shelters. Good deeds for just about everyone. Someone’s even kick-starting an app called ‘be a hero’ that links you with people in your area who need help. Elderly people who need help around the house. That kind of thing.”

Something heavy settles in his stomach. Sure, he helped sometimes, but he ignored it all for most of his life. He’s ignoring it now. And he has less excuse for doing so than everyone else. “I don’t like - I don’t like that one.”

Shifting of the mattress as Steve raises himself on his elbows. “Can you explain why Matt?”

Always with the feelings. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He makes a frustrated sound. Talking directly to Steve is still difficult. It’s like his mind makes up rules for who it’s safe to talk to when, and how fluently. Then it doesn’t tell him them until he tries to get the words out.

“Matt?” Karen asks, leaning her arm against his.

“I’m not. I’m not doing that anymore. I’m not h-h-helping.” Even focusing on Karen he has to drag the words out.

“You helped a lot Matt.” Shifting of fabric as Bucky crouches near the end of the bed. “If you want to help again when you’re better that’s fine, but you don’t have a responsibility to help them. It’s not your job.”

Matt’s rocking. He lets himself do it. The movement helps him focus. “They need me.”

“And you need to get better,” Foggy says from the tablet speakers.

“Look.” Bucky’s heart stays steady and calm. “It’s like this. You’re walking down a street and you see a homeless guy. That guy needs help, right? You can see it. So you can do him a kindness and give him some money or food, but no one’s going to look at you any different if you walk past him. Right now you don’t have enough resources to help. You couldn’t give that homeless guy money if you had none to spare. And when you can help, if you choose to, you’ll be going out of your way to do whoever it is a favour. We can argue about whether it’s your responsibility to call in a crime you hear being committed. But if you’re putting yourself in harms way to help someone, that’s not an obligation, that’s a kindness. You want and are able to do it, that’s fine. If you’re not, that’s fine too.”

"There are people hur-hurt..." the words choke off. Grumbling frustration, he reaches for the small computer instead. 'hurting. I could listen for them. I could help.'

"Matty," Foggy says once a beep over the tablet says he received the message. "Remember your cognitive biases. You're trying to take responsibility for things that aren't entirely your fault. Which cognitive distortion is that?"

Matt's not sure whether he's grateful or annoyed that he has a friend as dedicated as Foggy, who puts effort into learning these things so he can remind Matt of them. 'Personalisation.'

"Right," Foggy says in his flat tablet voice. "Ten points to Hufflepuff. Try looking at it from the friend approach. That's the easiest for you."

The friend approach and analysing a statement critically are his go to methods. Only, when he's feeling very anxious, thinking critically can be difficult. The friend approach is more intuitive. His fingers tap on the small computer. ‘If it were you I'd say you should look after yourself first before you look after others.'

"Proud of you buddy." Foggy does sound proud. It makes something warm glow in Matt's chest. "Start treating yourself as nice as you treat hypothetical me and we'll beat these self-hate episodes into the ground where they belong."

The self-hate had appeared during his feelings talk with Foggy. Some throwaway comment that Foggy hadn't let him throw away. It'd led to him moving his conversation with Foggy out here so everyone could give him a good person talk, which Karen and Foggy are adding to with positive comments and updates about the savedaredevil campaign.

He's not sure he's going to be able to beat the self-hate. He shows a lot of self-hate. All or nothing thinking, which means he holds himself to what Fiona and Foggy claim are ridiculously high standards, and beats himself up when he doesn't reach them. Personalisation; viewing everything as his fault even when it isn't. Magnification and minimisation; seeing his negative aspects as bigger than they are, and his positive ones as smaller.

Filtered thinking; dwelling on negative things about himself. Using 'should' statements to criticise himself. And so much labelling; calling himself pathetic or weak or a parasite for asking so much of people.

It's a lot of things to address. Part of him doesn't want to, because this is how he's lived for a long time. Changing feels like cutting off a limb. And maybe it would be OK not to change if things were like before, and self-hate stayed as self-hate with mild self-harm and a little extra recklessness when things got bad. But now self-hate leads to lots of self-harm. To Bucky coming into his room at night to try and get him to stop biting and hitting after a nightmare. It leads to thoughts of knives and other ways to end everything.

He needs to try and get better. Whatever that entails.

"Your priest organised another protest," Karen says, clicking at the humming thing in her hand. "They marched through Manhattan. Wow, people are really fired up about New Delhi. Ten thousand people turned up this time. There are pictures. Foggy. Sending you the link now."

"Wow." Steve's heart speeds up. "That's a lot of people."

"Not a surprise." The mattress dips as Bucky sits behind Karen. "Twitter went crazy about the New Delhi thing. The president literally asked you to help with an aid mission. You spent days finding people buried and helping dig them up. You saved a lot of lives. There are photos everywhere of you carrying that little boy out of the rubble."

It's odd to think of the media showing something positive about him after the video.

"Hey Matt I think we know some of these people." Excitement in Foggy's voice. "Dude. It's Joe Danner, that kid whose step-dad tried to get convicted for breaking into his own house to get his own stuff like five minutes after getting kicked out. Oh and the lovely Jenny Moeller. You helped get immigration off her back, remember? I can see like half Josie's clientele just from these pictures. There's a guy we knew from Law school. My God, they have lawyers protesting against a criminal trial. That's comedy gold. Oh look, there's Steve Burns. Remember him? Police caught him drugged out of his mind at a crime scene. Tried to pin it on him. We persuaded him to go to rehab. Wow, he looks great."

"The signs say 'our Daredevil,' 'Hell's Kitchen's Daredevil,' 'our hero.' They're proud of you Matt." Steve's heart says truth.

Karen leans lightly against him. "Liking this one better?"

Matt frowns. It's a lot to take in. His mind wants to throw a hundred reasons at him that state why these people can't be proud of him. They don't know him. Maybe they pity him. Maybe they're caught up in a viral campaign and couldn't care less what they're protesting.

He pushes the thoughts out of his head. Tries to let himself believe this is something positive. It doesn't quite work, but he tries. He nods.

***

Matt paces his bedroom, goes back to the small computer on the bed, drops it and paces his bedroom again.

Karen's out practising some kind of self defence with Clint and Natasha. Steve and Bucky are pretending not to be waiting for Jarvis to tell them Matt needs help. Their heart-rates have stayed too fast ever since Matt told them what he wanted to do.

He needs to write a description for the third one.

No. Not a useful way to phrase that. He wants to write a description for the third one. He'll try not to beat himself up if he can't, but he wants to try.

After the third trip to the small computer and no words, he sits down in front of his calming trunk. Deep breath. Reaching for his father's boxing robe he buries his face in it. A faint scent of sweat, leather, and a million other things that make up his dad. For a moment he's nine years old again and his dad is right there next to him, powerful and safe.

The scent doesn't linger, and he knows from experience that the more he tries to breath it in, the more it will fade. He runs his fingers over the other objects in the box before pulling out Toothless.

He sits on the bed. The heavy blanket across his legs. The fleece blanket on his chest so he can smell the tower. Toothless beneath his head with Foggy's relaxed heartbeat drumming slowly. The tangle fuzzy twisting in his right hand, and the keyboard under his left hand.

He types. Sometimes he has to shove off the blanket and rock back and forth. A couple more times than he's willing to admit he clutches onto Toothless and burrows his head into the toy, like he's trying to get inside it, as close to Foggy's heartbeat as he can. Lucky helps, nudging, licking, letting Matt play with his fur and rest his head on the dog's side to hear his breathing.

_'3) Old spice. About six inches taller than me. Three times as wide as me. Lots of muscle. Calluses on hands. Think from lifting weights. Smells like same cheap beer as others. Less like cigarettes. Don't think he smokes. Ate steak and salad recently. The bite mark.’_

There are other things he could type. More intimate things, but those won’t help Jessica find him. He’s not even sure these details will.

The screen-reader repeats the words several times before he can bring himself to send the message to Jessica. Panic floods through him the moment ‘message sent’ chirps in his ear. Because now it’s out there. He can’t get it back. He can’t stop Jessica from reading it.

What if she thinks he’s pathetic?

What if she reads it and knows he could’ve added more? He could have. He could break down the man’s scent. Find more details than old spice. He remembers the man’s scent well. But he doesn’t want to break it down. He doesn’t want to think that carefully about it.

What if she doesn’t want the description in the first place? What if there’s nothing in there she can use? What if he’s just wasting her time?

Pushing away the weighted blanket, he drives a fist into his leg.

“Mr Murdock.” Jarvis sounds so composed. It’s jarring against the swirling panic. “Take a slow breath in…and out.”

Clutching the sheets beneath him tightly Matt tries to follow along. “Jarvis.” He takes another breath, holds this one for longer. “Jarvis. I’m screwing up again.”

“I see no evidence of you ‘screwing up’ as you put it.”

Matt growls. “I feel like I’m screwing up.”

“Perhaps you could state your reasons why?”

Matt blinks. Barks a laugh despite the panic threading pins and needles through his limbs. The laugh tastes bitter. “I don’t know. I did what I meant to do, but I still feel like I’ve screwed up.”

“I believe this is an example of emotional reasoning. Just because you feel something doesn’t make it true.”

“Just because I feel something doesn’t make it true,” Matt repeats while focusing on his breathing. The words help him divorce himself from the swirling panic. Without his attention it starts to fade. “Sometimes - sometimes I wonder if I have any thoughts that aren’t cognitive distortions.”

“Everyone suffers from them to some extent,” Jarvis says from the ceiling. “You just have rather a lot of them, and they are proving very unhelpful to your recovery and wellbeing.”

“OK.” Matt pulls Lucky close so he can rest his head on the dog’s side. “OK. Jessica’s not going to be mad.”

“I see no reason why she would be Mr Murdock.”

There’s still some of that panic lodged in his throat. A certainty that someone is going to come and tell him he’s doing something wrong. “And I’m fine. And nothing is wrong. And everyone is safe.”

Jarvis’s voice turns softer. “Would you like me to report everyone’s status?”

Matt nods. Lucky’s steady breathing helps calm him down. “Yeah. OK.”


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning = So far Matt's flashbacks to do with the rape have been fairly vague. The one in this chapter is more detailed. I've changed the rating to mature because of it. Let me know if you think mature is high enough a rating or if you think it needs to be higher.

“Hiking, and now bowling,” Jessica scoffs. “Why did I agree to date you again?”

A smile in Luke’s rumbling voice. “Because you love me.”

“Ugh.” Jessica’s footsteps echo on the bowling alley’s wooden floors as they move away from Luke. “You’re sappy as well.”

Karen elbows Matt from the seat next to his. “We agree with you Luke, don’t we Matt? Bowling is fun.”

Matt shrugs. He’d have to be bowling first to judge that. So far from the smells and echoing noises he’s not impressed.

Something dark enters Karen’s voice. “Both of you will like bowling even if I have to force you to like it.”

Clint’s limping footsteps stop in front of them. “See. What did I say? Terrifying. Hey Matt. Which of these shoes smells the least like something died in them?”

Hard choice. Matt points at the slightly less offensive scent of unwashed feet in Clint’s right hand.

“You wouldn’t have this problem if you didn’t lose the pair I bought you,” Tony says from the other set of seats. “Again.”

Natasha slips into the seat next to Karen. “It’s Clint.”

Scent of popcorn in Sam’s hands as he sits on one of Tony’s seats. “He either hoards things or loses them. Or hoards them, then loses them. Popcorn?”

Sound of hair moving as Pepper shakes her head. “I’m saving room for the pizza.”

Squeaking wheels of Steve’s wheelchair near the door of the bowling alley. Bruce’s shuffling footsteps. Bucky’s uneven ones. The smell of pizza.

Hard plastic rolling against wood. The sound echoes horribly. The sound changes in pitch as it travels down the lane. Then there’s a great clatter of wood and plastic as several pins fall.

Matt winces at the noise. The vibrations seem to linger in his jaw.

Tony hums. “Maybe we didn’t think this bring the guy with super-senses to a bowling alley idea through.”

Flesh against plastic as Bucky drops in the chair to Matt’s right. “Matt, why don’t you put on your headphones for a bit? You can take them off when it’s your turn to bowl.”

Matt shakes his head. There aren’t many strangers around, but they’re still there. If he puts his headphones on he’ll be blind. They could sneak right next to him, and he might not notice.

Steve’s squeaky wheels stop next to Bucky. Metal scraping as he puts the brake on. “At least until after you eat something Matt. We’ll watch your back if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Cardboard against cardboard as Sam helps hand out the pizzas. “And we can describe what’s going on so you don’t miss anything.”

Matt sighs, but takes the headphones out of the satchel. The echoing noises do make his stomach turn. And maybe this will help things go better than they did at the diner last night.

Sam stays true to his word and describes everything that’s happening. He even starts warning Matt when the balls from any of the lanes are about to hit the pins, once he notices that the crash sound still makes Matt flinch with the headphones on.

Bucky and Karen egg Matt on until he finishes a slice of pizza, but he can’t bring himself to eat anymore. It’s nice. The base and crust are unusually thick and fluffy. The toppings are simple like he prefers. But the smells of strangers around them doesn’t let his stomach settle.

Clint is amazing at bowling. So is Karen. Everyone else is good except Tony, Bruce, and Jessica who get gutter ball after gutter ball. Matt gets a strike every time after taking off his headphones, crouching down to slap the floor a few times, and tilting his head repeatedly to try and decipher the distorted sound-waves.

It goes well until he picks up a scent from the night before. One of the younger kids.

“I see him,” Jessica says after Matt stills for too long. “I got it covered Murdock.”

Matt refuses to put his headphones back on after that. The laughter when it comes seems to pierce straight through his brain.

“It’s fine Matt,” Sam says calmly. “It’s from the group of elderly ladies on the other side of the alley. The kid with them just threw another gutter ball. They’re not looking this way. They’re not laughing at you.”

They’re not laughing at me, Matt reminds himself. And even if they were it shouldn’t matter because they’re strangers. Why should their opinion of him matter? He doesn’t quite believe the words, but they do help.

His heart beats too fast. By the time Pepper announces it’s his turn to bowl again, his hand grips the chair too tight to move. He can’t even let go to stroke the nudging Lucky or answer Bucky when he asks what number he’s on. It’s like the plastic chair has transformed into an anchor point, and if he lets go he’ll be swept up in the noise and commotion around him.

It’s hard to pick up individual words when everything is so overwhelming, but from what he can tell no one is talking about him. It just feels like they are. It feels like everyone is staring at him. Judging him. And he knows that shouldn’t matter. He knows it shouldn’t. But it does. It really does.

“Matt?” Bucky asks, voice soft and rough. “You want to leave?”

Matt hunches his shoulders. Closes his eyes. It doesn’t help block the world out. He doesn’t know why his instincts tell him it’ll help.

“Matt, you did good.” Natasha’s says from the other set of chairs. Her voice is calm. Soothing. “You stayed a lot longer than you did last time. You made progress. You’re allowed to leave if you want.”

“No one’s going to be mad,” Steve adds.

Sometimes they seem to know him better than he knows himself. He nods rapidly. Go. Yes. He wants to go.

Sam walks beside him, telling him how many paces it is to the door, then how many to the rental car outside. Bucky stays on his other side. A solid barrier against the world. His muscles are tense. At attention. He won’t let anyone near Matt.

Lucky leans against Matt’s legs. The warm adds to the heartbeat pulsing through Bucky’s elbow. Both points of contact helping him stay grounded. Jessica and Karen trail behind them, bickering about bowling.

“Here Buck.” Jangling of keys as Sam tosses them towards Bucky. Strange metal against metal as Bucky catches them. “Get him inside. We’ll deal with this.”

It’s only when there’s a click of the car door opening. Then Matt navigating his trembling limbs inside to the smell of leather upholstery that he realises the kid from before followed them out of the bowling alley. Leaning against Bucky’s side, he tries to focus, picking up snatches of a rapid heartbeat. Scared.

He may be scared, but the kid doesn’t run away, not even with Jessica’s, Karen’s, and Sam’s heartbeats around him. “I just wanted to say sorry. For my friends the other day. He can hear me, right?”

Matt recognises the voice. It’s the same kid who tried to make the older one lay off him.

“So you better be very careful what you say.” Steel in Karen’s voice.

“I don’t really understand what happened,” the boy says, sounding serious. “People. They talk a lot. Not all of it makes sense. But he got hurt, right? So I’m really sorry my friends hurt him some more. I think he’s neat. Me and my sister looked up some of the things he did. We like him a whole lot. She’s five and she was born with no eyes. And my Dad-” the boy breaks off with a sound of frustration. “Parents can be stupid sometimes. All he talks about is how he’s going to support her as an adult since she’s never going to be able to support herself. And it’s so idiotic. But she listens to him, because he’s her Dad. So she’s refusing to learn to read because he acts like there’s no point. All she does is goof off and act dumb. And I mean like drooling and pretending she can’t speak sentences dumb. Not regular little sister dumb. Sometimes she pretends she can’t walk because it makes people coo over her. So I know using people as inspiration porn is kind of insulting, but I tell her and my Dad about blind people sometimes. About what they’ve done. My Dad doesn’t listen, and usually she doesn’t either. But she listened to his story, and the past couple weeks she learnt to read most of her books because she wants to be a lawyer like him. And he means a lot to us, OK. Both of us. I wanted him to know that.”

“I think he got all that,” Sam says. “But if he didn’t, we’ll make sure he knows.”

A smile in the kid’s voice. “Thanks.”

“Get better friends kid,” Jessica says before her footsteps move toward the car. “Ones less fucking shitty.”

***

Maybe this is a bad idea, Matt thinks later on that evening. They’re playing a game before Karen, Jessica, Luke, and Pepper have to leave to go back to the city. Clint and Jessica came to him shortly before the game and explained their plan. Foggy had suggested it over text message to Clint. Of course. Foggy had been king of pranks in college.

They form two teams. Matt, Steve, Bucky, Clint, Jessica, Natasha on one team. Tony, Bruce, Pepper, Sam, Luke, and Karen on the other.

The game is called encore. Each team gets a word and 30 seconds. If they can name a song with that word in the lyrics within that time they win a point. Do a half decent job singing that song they get another point. Do a good job singing the song they get three points total. Fail to name a song within the time period, they lose a point.

Clint will make sure the right card comes up. But they say Matt needs to be the one to trigger the prank. “Those puppy dog eyes can do magic,” Clint says sounding awed.

Bruce makes his way through ‘You are my sunshine’ with a nervous heart and a wry smile in his voice. Tony claps and cheers. Karen adds a wolf whistle, which presumably not wanting to be outdone, Tony copies louder.

“Chills,” Bucky reads out the card. “No fair. Why do they get ‘dear’ and we get chills?”

Clint said everyone would appreciate the humour, even though they’re setting Steve up. Or Matt is setting Steve up. He types out the words ‘you’re the one that I want - Grease.’ Hands it to Steve.

“Oh,” excitement in Steve’s voice. “I remember this movie. The songs were really good.”

That would be the reason why Foggy chose that song. It’s just like Foggy to insist that Steve’s modern day education include musicals.

Matt leans back against the side of the sofa bed. Points at Steve.

Confusion in Steve’s voice. “You want me to sing it?”

Matt nods.

“Well you do know the song, right?” Clint asks sounding way too casual. How is he a spy?

“I guess.” A frown in Steve’s voice. “But I’m sure there are other people who know it.”

Matt furrows his brow. Lets his shoulders slump. He’d taken off his glasses earlier to prepare for this.

Sam pauses mid-step partway back from the kitchen area. Some sloshing liquid in his hand. “I don’t know what he wants Rogers, but if you don’t give it to him in the next ten seconds my heart will explode.”

Steve whines. “OK Matt. I’ll do it. But it’s a duet. Someone else is going to need to sing the second part.”

Matt’s puppy dog eyes: one. Steve’s guilt powers: zero.

“I’d do it.” Movement as Bucky shrugs. “But I haven’t listened to this one yet. And if I look it up that’s cheating.”

Fabric shifting as Natasha gets to her feet. “You two would fight all day about who’d sing the female part anyway. Come on Rogers. Bring it.”

No change in Clint’s heartbeat. He’d planned this part too.

“I got the chills, they’re multiplying.” Hesitation in Steve’s voice, but a practised rhythm too. Movement as he gets up to stand with Natasha in the empty space at the foot of the sofa bed. “And I’m losing control. ‘Cause the power you’re supplying. It’s electrifying!” He doesn’t skid along the floor like Foggy does when he sings that part, but he does do some kind of large movement.

A smile in Natasha’s voice. She sings well with a husky quality. “You better shape up, ‘cause I need a man. And my heart is set on you.”

Natasha flows into the role as smoothly as silk. Her voice is beautiful. Movements that barely disturb the air. She’s an amazing dancer.

Steve’s footwork is shuffling from his injuries. Nowhere near as coordinated as Natasha. His movements are stiff, disturbing the air a lot. But soon enough a smile replaces the hesitation in his voice.

By the time they’re onto the last part where they sing the lyrics back and forth to each other “I better shape up ‘cause you need a man.” “I need a man who can keep me satisfied.” They’re completely relaxed with each other. Both of them grin around the words. Their movements are so close it’s hard to tell which belongs to which.

Matt sits against the side of the sofa bed, listening with a fascinated awe. Natasha’s voice is beautiful. So is Steve’s. And together they sound amazing.

They’re through most of the “You’re the one that I want.” “You are the one I want.” “Oo, Oo, Oo, honey.” When Steve stops mid “Oo.” “Clint. Are you filming us?”

“Er.” Quick movement as Clint taps the buzzing thing in his hand. “No?”

“Buck,” Steve growls. “Get him.”

Bucky leaps from Matt’s side, and Clint squeals. He almost makes it over the back of the sofa bed before there’s flesh grasping flesh. Bucky grabs Clint’s leg? Clint thumps down onto the mattress.

Something flies Matt’s way. He grabs it. Plastic. Buzzing. A phone. He throws it quickly to Natasha.

“Matt!” Bucky sounds scandalised. “You’re on their side?”

Matt shifts sheepishly. ‘F.U.N.” He finger-spells, eyebrows raised in question. Clint said they’d find it funny. Foggy did too. Jessica just wanted to send her friend Trish a video of Captain America singing a song from Grease. She didn’t seem to care what anyone thought about it. Matt’s not sure if it’s funny. His sense of humour’s still kind of dulled.

“And the video is sent to Foggy and Trish,” Natasha says from on top of the back of an armchair. Keeping the phone away from Steve?

“Not youtube?” Bucky asks. Flesh against flesh. He pokes the still sprawled Clint’s side. Clint giggles. “’Cause it would be hilarious if that video was on youtube.”

“Steve and Natasha shippers everywhere would rejoice.” Some kind of large movement from Tony.

Karen sighs happily. “I shall name it Stasha.”

“Or Romanogers,” Sam says thoughtfully.

“No.” A dramatic sounding pause from Tony. “Black eagle.”

Fabric against fabric. Natasha slumps down to sit on the armchair now Steve’s not trying to get the phone off her. “It’s not allowed on youtube without Steve’s permission. Matt’s rules.”

A smile in Steve’s voice. He doesn’t sound mad. “Thanks Matt. I’ll watch it first. Then I’ll probably let you post it. My old war effort videos are still out there. It’s not like it can get any worse than that.”

Bucky pokes Clint some more, making him giggle and shift. “You helped set all this up, huh Matt? That puppy dog eyes act.”

Hesitantly Matt nods.

The mattress jumps as Karen drops down onto it. Shifting as she moves one of Clint’s legs out of her way. “That video exists in the world because of you Matt,” she says with fake seriousness. “Make a fist.”

Matt does so.

Karen’s hand bumps it lightly. “From Foggy. And me of course.”

“Would’ve been hotter if Barnes had sung the other part,” Jessica grumbles from somewhere on the floor by Karen’s legs. Sloshing of liquid. Drinking whisky again.

A buzz from the small computer. The message from Foggy is simple. “My life is complete.”

“So are cameras an allowed thing now?” Tony asks. “As in a not going to end in a gruesome Black Widow death thing?”

Fabric against fabric. Natasha crosses one leg over the other. “Only if your next song is ‘If I only had a heart.’”

A grin in Tony’s voice. “When a man’s an empty kettle! He should be on his mettle!”

The rules of the game fall apart, like they often seem to with the Avengers. Instead someone suggests what song they want to sing, or someone dares someone else to sing a certain song. Everyone has a go, except Matt. Even Luke unexpectedly sings a overly sweet love song that Jessica makes gagging noises at. Karen eggs Jessica into singing a couple of songs with her. Mainly things with lyrics such as “I wanna get in trouble. I wanna start a fight.” And “You’ve got a nerve to be asking a favour. You’ve got a nerve to be calling my number.”

Steve breaks out into “I’ll make a man out of you” from Mulan, which makes everyone including Matt laugh. Then he sings some songs from Tangled and How to Train Your Dragon, which makes Matt grin.

Bruce sings songs that are sweet and light, and sometimes Pepper or Tony sings along with him. Natasha sings a couple of Russian lullabies which are beautiful, but otherwise sticks to more mainstream music.

It’s amazing. Funny. Beautiful. Comforting. All of it. Sitting with his feet stroking Lucky, and listening to Bucky sing in that unique rough smooth voice of his, it’s not as difficult to eat more of the pizza when Sam brings some over for him.

“Hold onto me as we go. As we roll down this unfamiliar road.”

Steve is slumped near Matt. His heart still slow and exhausted from his attempted dance and singing. He may be a fast healer, but he’s not one hundred percent yet. He seems happy though. Every word he says has a smile behind it.

“Don’t pay no mind to the demons. They fill you with fear. The trouble - it might drag you down. If you get lost you can always be found.” Bucky’s voice curls the notes. It’s fascinating to listen to. “Just know you’re not alone. ‘Cause I’m gonna make this place your home.”

***

Three days later, Matt wakes up in the middle of the night, and the house is empty.

It’s not just that. The air is thick. Thicker than it was in New Delhi. Inhaling this new air feels like breathing in porridge. There’s no solid smell to it. Only hints. Fear. Sweat. The unscented detergent the Avengers somehow know to use with his stuff.

Matt pushes himself out of his bed. Even Lucky’s gone. The calming trunk is gone from beside his bed. The satchel isn’t where he put it last night. Everything is gone.

A dull fear settles in his stomach. Why would they leave?

Three heartbeats outside the house. They’re familiar. But his hearing is as thick and garbled as the air. He can’t tell who they are. His feet move in that direction anyway. The Avengers are gone. They left him. He can already tell somehow that the rental cars are gone too, and the jet is gone from its hanger in the woods. They’re not planning on coming back.

He doesn’t want to be alone.

His hand finds the front door sooner than he thinks he should. Outside is dark. Real dark. He hasn’t seen dark for a long time. People think being blind is like closing your eyes, but for Matt it’s not. Maybe it was at first. But now after so many years it’s just an absence of sight. He thinks in hearing, touch, smell, taste. What visual memories he has are shaky and fragile. He doesn’t see, not even this inky black that seems to shift.

He walks. The black wraps around him, seeming to consume him. Fear creeps down his spine, but he needs to find Bucky. Maybe he can make him change his mind about leaving him. Or he could try and find Foggy, Karen, Steve, Anna, Candy. Try to change their minds about leaving him.

He’s not sure he can change their minds. They’ve decided, and it is the right decision. But he doesn’t want to be alone. Maybe he can persuade them to at least give him back Toothless, then he can have Foggy’s heartbeat.

The three heartbeats solidify in front of him from nowhere. And he can see them. That sends terror flooding through him faster than anything, because he can _see_ them. He’s not supposed to be able to see them.

Their shapes flicker in and out of focus. One is tall and wide, like a grizzly bear he saw in a book once when he was a kid. Another is tall and slim with blood dripping from a hand. A dog that scared him when he was younger. Slim with razor sharp teeth. His grandmother had showed him a picture of hell once. The place she said he’d go one day. Demons tearing apart screaming people, and above them a larger demon looking down on it all and grinning. The large demon is what the last one looks like. Curved horns, claws at the end of each finger, a smile that says he’s looking forward to seeing Matt hurt.

The thick air jumps in and out of his lungs. He opens his mouth to scream, and what comes out is “You’re in the wrong order.”

 _“Going to teach you a lesson you fucking bitch.”_ Pain in the demon’s voice.

The darkness disappears replaced by the overwhelming smell of alleyway and cheap cigarettes. Matt's on his knees. The pain in his head driven to agony by sharp burning in his scalp. The man gripping his hair. His arm is so far past pain that it feels like else nothing in the world exists.

Already his mind is trying to get back in control. There's a tactic he uses when he can't afford to be crippled by pain. It's a short term solution at best, but he can implement it in a heartbeat unlike mentally watching the pain long enough to accept it. He has to find a part of him that doesn't hurt and put all his attention there instead. If one of his arms is hurt, he can focus on the other and remind himself that one isn't.

But his head is woozy and the man yanks his hair from side to side like a dog shaking a puppy. The pain from his arm is fresh enough that it seems to be everywhere. He's a throbbing mass of pain and nothing else.

He can't concentrate now. In a minute maybe. He just needs to be able to breathe for a minute.

They don't give him a minute. Hands press him into the alley. Hard ground crushing into his face. Someone wrenches his broken arm away from his chest, and everything fizzles out for a moment.

Words coming from far away. Angry. "He chases away our bitch, so we'll make him our bitch. Boy, you go first. Show this bastard his place."

He feels the touch before it makes sense. A finger rammed where it shouldn't be rammed. It takes a long time to make sense. He swears. Tries to kick, punch, bite. Anything.

"Look at him jump." A hand yanks his hair again. Another slaps him around the face. A grin in the voice of the one with the limp. He seems to be the leader. "Beg nicely for me Daredevil, and maybe I'll let my boys use lube when they fuck you."

Matt spits in the direction of his voice. Blood in his mouth from the beating. "You better let me go right now or I'll-"

Maybe some kind of signal from the leader. He can't tell with his senses this addled.

More fingers ram into him. He can't tell. At least three. They spread, and the burning pain turns into a stabbing one that travels all the way to his stomach. He shakes his head despite the hand gripping his hair. Scrabbles and squirms to try and get away.

Laughter around him. They sound excited. The leader sounds the most excited. Arousal drifts off him in waves. "You'll what Daredevil? What are you going to do?"

If this was an action movie, those words would be the perfect cue to enact some daring plan. But this isn't a movie, and Matt's no hero. His sticks are somewhere. Kicked away sometime between hitting his head and breaking his arm. Even his injured arm is tightly restrained. All he can do is keep struggling. Try to find an opening he can use. "I'll make you pay!"

More laughter. The fingers keep moving, sending constant stabs of pain coiling through his insides. The hands on his legs move, pulling them further apart. More than painful, it's humiliating. No matter how hard he struggles he can't throw them off. The moment one hand loses its grip, it's replaced by another.

"When I get up I'm going to-" he grits his teeth against a sudden jolt of pain. His arm. His head. Everything else. It's more than even he's used to. "I'm gonna smash you into the fucking ground!"

The fingers leave. The relief is so palpable he feels like crying. It's hard to tell from the tang of copper already in the air, but he thinks he's bleeding. Something warm and hard presses against him, then the pain is back worse than before. It's too much.

He bites back a 'stop.' Bites back a 'please.' No matter what they do to him, he's not going to give them the satisfaction of begging. "Kill you. Fucking kill all of you."

The man leaning over him groans, like he's the one in pain here. He sounds younger than the others. Smells like bubblegum. "He's too fucking tight. Can't I use some lube?"

"Fucker doesn't deserve it." Sharp pain across his backside. The man who smells like Skittles slaps him. "Right?"

"Right." A grin in the leader's voice. "Make the bitch bleed and you can use that to slick him up."

"Break all your hands," Matt snarls. "Every last fucking one of you!"

No one responds. Like he doesn't exist. Like he's nothing now they've got him trapped.

But this is strange, isn't it? Because before there were woods and darkness. A bear. A dog. A demon. He was looking for Bucky.

Bucky. The name dulls the pain running through him. The hands holding him down feel distant. Bucky was nothing but a name when he was in the alley. He wasn't the fully fleshed construct of scents, sounds, memories he is now.

He's dreaming.

All he needs to do is wake up, and this will end. He needs to wake up. Wake up. Come on. Wake up!

Matt springs upright on his bed, gasping. A hand presses against his shoulder. Bucky. Relief floods though him.

Bucky's voice is cold. "Can't do this anymore Matt. Nightmares every damn night. It's too much work. You're too much work."

The air's too thick to breathe.

"Not like it was our job anyway." Bucky laughs, but it's distorted. Not his nice rough laugh. "What are we to you? A bunch of strangers. And Foggy. He was past done with you weeks ago. He's hanging on out of pity. Nothing else."

Matt shakes his head. "Foggy wouldn't do that."

"Are you sure?"

He's not sure. But he needs to try and be sure. "And Bucky wouldn't say that. This is another dream. I'm still dreaming. I want to wake up."

"You are awake," fake Bucky says. "Just because you can't deal with the fact you're pathetic. Worth less than nothing-"

Covering his ears does nothing. So he talks instead, as loud as the thick air will let him. "I want to wake up. I want to wake up. I want to wake up!"

"What?" That nasty not Bucky laugh again. "You thought someone cared about you? That they wouldn't leave this time? Your Mom. Your Dad. Stick. Electra. Every friend you had. Everyone leaves. Everyone you ever cared about left. Even the nuns wouldn't let you go back for the holidays. No one cares about you. They put up with you, then turn their back as soon as they can."

Matt swallows the panic. This is a dream. It has to be. He needs to wake up. He's not in the woods with monsters. He's not in the alley. He's not listening to fake Bucky preparing to kick him out. It's all a dream.

But what if it isn't? What if Bucky's really saying those things?

Or what if it is a dream. And he spirals through, trying and failing to wake up forever. Winding up in a different nightmare each time. What if this is hell? Nightmares layered upon nightmare. Each wrapping tight around him.

He wants Bucky. He wants Foggy. He wants Lucky. He wants to wake up. "It's a dream. It's a dream. Wake up. Come on. Fucking wake up. Wake up!"

"Matt!"

He takes a breath. This time it's different. Thinner. There are scents. Lavender and dog. Beeswax and coffee. Leaves. Trees. Soil. A heartbeat thumps against his leg. Familiar. Safe. He launches himself at it before he realises what he's doing. Buries his face in warm fur.

"Sure Clint," a voice mutters. "Tell Jarvis you've got this one. Bucky coaxes him back to bed all the time. How hard could it be? Of course the one time he wakes up has to be on my watch. Next time Nat wants a glass of water in the middle of the night, she's getting her own. Maybe. OK, probably not."

It takes a minute for the name of the safe warm he's clutching to come to him. Lucky. That's it. The dog seems happy at the attention, wriggling so he can lap at Matt's neck.

"And I should be talking to you instead of myself right now, shouldn't I?" Fabric shifting. The voice comes from lower. "Sorry bro. Listen Matt, it's Clint. You had a nightmare. A sleepwalking nightmare. So we're in the woods right now. Which kind of sucks since neither of us has any shoes on. And I don't have my aids in, so I won't be able to hear you. Which is a stupid thing to say since you don't talk to me. And it's dark, so I also can't see you that well. I really didn't think this through did I? Hey, you want me to take you back to the house?"

He's outside in the woods. His ears search for the three heartbeats he's suddenly sure are out here somewhere. He can't catch his breath.

"Oh right. Panic attack. You should breathe slow. Come to think of it, I should too." Shifting of undergrowth as Clint moves. "Let's try this together."

It's several long minutes before he's able to nod his agreement at the idea of going back inside the house. He takes Clint's offered hand, not able to figure out the complex operation of getting to his feet by himself. His fingers skate something papery. The newspaper bracelet Matt gave him.

A sheepish smile in Clint's voice as they stumble towards where the house must be. "Must've forgotten to take it off before going to bed. Always doing that. I've lost half the beads already."

He's still shaking by the time there's smooth wood beneath his feet instead of grass. His ears keep searching for intruders. His body insists on flinching at the least sound.

"Aw Steve," Clint says, supporting Matt's weight towards the sofa bed in the middle of the room. "Why'd I go through the effort of getting Jarvis not to wake you guys, when you were going to wake up anyway?"

"Light sleeper," Steve says from the sofa bed. Two heartbeats on it. Bucky's is slow in sleep. He must've had a nightmare too. Matt hears him come out here sometimes muttering about nightmares or not being able to sleep. "I didn't want to rain on your parade. It's better if everyone learns to help each other."

"Wow." They stop close enough to the sofa bed that Matt can feel Bucky's warmth. The man's heart slowly drifts out of sleep. "I'm going to tell everyone you said that. Seems like only yesterday you were snapping at anyone who so much as mentioned helping out your bestest buddy Bucky."

Skin against skin. Bucky rubs his face. "I hate that cartoon. All those years saving Steve's ass, and I go down in history as a scrawny teenage sidekick." He sounds groggy with sleep.

Movement. Steve moves something from the empty side of the bed to between him and Bucky. "Go back to bed Clint. And thank you."

Clint's footsteps move away. "Not exactly a chore you know. Night Matt. See you at a human hour."

Sharp movement. Bucky jolts upright. "Matt? Jeez. What happened? Bad dream?"

"Matt." Steve's voice is soft. "Come sit next to Bucky. I'll get you your aids."

Shaking isn't conductive to coordinated movement, but somehow Matt climbs on the bed. There's fleece spread out next to Bucky. That must be what Steve moved. Bucky drops another one over his knees.

Steve's footsteps come back. He sits the other side of Matt. "You can stay here tonight, or you can go back to your bed. Although if you make a habit of this, we're going to have to buy silk sheets."

"That's as good a reason for sleepovers as I ever heard."

A smile in Steve's voice. "Why do you assume you'll get silk sheets? You always end up in my bed anyway. If anyone should get silk sheets, it's me."

Bucky sighs. Hair against fabric as he leans back against the pillow. "Stark's a billionaire. We can both get silk sheets."

His satchel in front of him. Lucky curls up between him and Steve, trying to steal some of the fleece blanket Matt's sitting on. Something warm blossoms in his chest at the conversation. They're making plans to change their lives around for something Matt might want. Not need. Just want.

They're not going to leave, right?

Clint comes back out of Natasha's room, muttering "crap. Water." The sound of running water hitting glass before he disappears again.

"Jarvis," Matt says quietly. He's allowed to ask for things. "Safe."

"The perimeter is secure," Jarvis says, well trained by now. "There is no one on the premises but you and the other residents Mr Murdock. Mr Wilson and Doctor Banner are asleep. Sir is writing notes. Agents Romanov and Barton are talking, but will soon be asleep. On my last sync Mr Nelson was asleep in his apartment in the tower. All the other contacts on your monitor list attended their last check-in. Do you wish me to detail security measures again?"

Matt nods, fumbling with one of the fleece blankets before leaning back against it.

By the time Jarvis is finished, Steve's and Bucky's hearts are slow. Near sleep. Matt's shaking has slowed to the occasional tremble. He still listens too much to the noises around him, searching for intruders. Hoping the others aren’t watching, he quickly nudges Lucky and signs ‘who?’ The dog’s muscles tense beside him as Lucky senses to see if any strangers are in the house, then relaxes. No one there.

The nightmare sits on the edge of his mind, making his stomach coil tight. If he wants something, he reminds himself, it’s OK to ask. “I’m awake. Everything’s fine.”

Bucky understands what he needs, even when he can’t find all the right words. Shifting. He rolls to face Matt. “Yeah pal. You’re fine. Safe.”

“Nothing bad’s going to happen,” Steve adds from Matt’s other side. Steve knows Matt gets convinced something horrible is going to happen when he gets panicked. Thinking he can predict the future. That’s another cognitive distortion. They’re working on it. Although he still gets caught up in it sometimes, and it can be hard to break free. Steve and Jarvis are the best at making him see the flaws in his thinking during those times, although Bucky, Natasha, Foggy, and Sam are good at it too.

Matt never talks about his nightmares. Everyone reminds him it’ll help. He’s starting to discuss what happened with Fiona and Foggy. Skating around the subject really. And he’s managed to answer a couple of the questions Jessica texts him, including where the second one’s scars were. He’d thrown his computer after that one, making a sizable dent in his bedroom wall that Tony was impressed by. He hasn’t even managed to write any of his flashbacks down, although Fiona keeps telling him to.

“I woke up,” Matt says quietly. “But it was another nightmare. I couldn’t wake up.”

“Nightmare inception.” Bucky’s voice is still thick with sleep. “I hate those.”

“I understood that reference,” Steve mumbles.

Matt’s heart jolts, remembering the things fake Bucky said. “I’m awake. Everything’s fine.”

“Yeah pal. Everything’s fine. You’re awake now,” Bucky says soothingly. “Come on. You’re working yourself up. What intervention are we going to use?”

Matt offers Bucky his hand.

Bucky sandwiches Matt’s hand between his own, rubbing circles like he always does before starting a hand massage. His movements are slow and gentle.

“Break it down Matt,” Steve says. “Think of the differences between dream and reality.”

It’s the same way he tackles negative thoughts. Break it down. Look at facts instead of emotions. “The air is different. Sounds and smells are different. I could - I could see some of the time. I can’t do that. But I - I dre-dre-dreamt I was in the woods. They were there. Then I woke up in the woods.”

“Jarvis says there are no intruders,” Steve reminds him. “And Clint followed you. He would’ve mentioned if he saw something. Isn’t it more likely that you sleepwalked to the woods and your mind incorporated them into your nightmare?”

That is more likely. But he still feels like they were there. Though, just because he feels it doesn’t make it true. “I saw them. I can’t see. So it wasn’t real?”

“It wasn’t real.” A smile in Steve’s voice. “It was just a dream. Good job breaking it down.”

Bucky pauses mid hand massage. “What did they look like?”

Monsters, he could say. Things he was frightened of when he was little. But he’s not sure he can say that. Just like he’s not sure he can repeat the things fake Bucky told him. Steve and Fiona say he shouldn’t censor himself so much before he tries to communicate. That if his words come out muddled or strange like they sometimes do no one will mind. That’s one of many things driving his selective mutism. And he’s trying. He really is. But sometimes it feels like he never grew up from that angry little kid who just wanted someone not to leave for once. That his whole life has been one long game of pretend. Wrapping himself in vocabulary and books. Pretending he’s smart when he feels stupid. Pretending he’s happy when he’s sad. Pretending he’s fearless when he’s not.

And now everything is thrown up and spun around, and he doesn’t know how to pretend anymore. He’s not used to this new vulnerability. He feels raw and exposed all the time. He doesn’t like it. He still can’t tell Bucky he’s terrified he’s going to leave. He can’t admit he had a whole flashback of gut-wrenching events that he only had snatches of before. But there is something that niggles at him. A tiny detail that feels significant.

“The first one.” Matt swallows. Takes a deep breath. “Bl-bl-blood dr-dripped from his hand.” And Matt’s thought about this carefully. It’s not Matt’s blood. He’s sure of it. It’s something else. “I-I think. I think I b-b-bit. I bit his thumb off.”

Matt launches himself over Bucky toward the side of the bed. Makes it just in time before he throws up.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked for a quick summary of the character's coping techniques. I'm going back to previous chapters when I have time to add relevant info or links to resources in the end comments when I get time. I'll add a very quick summary here too:
> 
> The best quick and practical guide to ptsd I've found is: http://www.moodjuice.scot.nhs.uk/posttrauma.asp There are other moodjuice guides to anxiety, depression, and other issues. They provide good practical information on exercises to help recover. It's made as a quick guide so there are gaps. Some people might need more examples to use the challenging negative thoughts exercise, and there are many steps left out of the part that talks about exposure therapy. It's not a replacement for a therapist, but it's a good practical guide to what therapy exercises can help ptsd. Though bear in mind that there are other therapy options out there.
> 
> Coping techniques summary:
> 
> Trigger lists so others can help you create a stress free as possible environment to help you tackle the trauma and triggers through therapy. More info about this added to chap 7 when they're first introduced.
> 
> Some kind of simple communication to let others know you need help or them to leave. The Avengers use a back off / fuck off system. They also try to employ open communication about what bothers them without judgment. Others may use different codes to request a change in conversation topic or other help. Matt uses a five point mood scale (I've also seen a ten point scale, pictures with emotions to indicate, and colored cards). Fiona introduced Matt to the scale partly to give him more control over his environment, to help others change their own behavior or offer help, and because he needed major practice conveying his emotions.
> 
> Matt and the others try to add things into their routines that will ease their overall stress levels. Such as feelings talks, exercise, and scheduled times for rest and relaxation. Matt and Bruce use daily meditation. Matt has a time of day set aside for re-framing negative thoughts he's collected throughout the day. (Once he can do this quicker and more independently he can address more of them as they come up).
> 
> (rest is in the end notes. Hope some of it is interesting. If you just want the story feel free to skip over these.)

They’ve been at the house in the Catskills a week. Steve is mostly healed. He’s still only just keeping up with Sam when they go jogging. Something that Sam finds funny. Matt always runs next to someone holding a long rope they can tug to guide him away from any potholes he might not notice. So it’s hard to be certain, but his own speed seems to be a little faster than Sam, and slower than Bucky.

Every morning since he apologised, the younger kid joins them for their jog. His name is Paul. He’s thirteen years old and has dyspraxia. Despite his natural clumsiness he wants to be as physically agile as Matt some day. He laps up every piece of advice they have, and when Clint and Natasha go with the rest of the team to the park, the boy practically interrogates them for tips.

Today the kid brings his sister. “I brought her cane,” he says sounding disgruntled. “But she refuses to use it.”

“I might fall over,” a small voice says by the boy’s side. “Daddy says you have to carry me so I don’t get hurt.”

Shuffling from Sam as he arranges the picnic blanket they’d brought to the park. “You’re pretty old to be carried. How old are you, four?”

“Five,” the girl says.

“Definitely too old to be carried everywhere if your legs work.” Sound of wicker. Bucky takes something out of the picnic basket. Tosses it to Natasha. “That age me and Stevie were running all over the place.”

Matt doesn’t think Bucky would be so tough if Paul hadn’t filled them all in about his sister Mandy. She talks perfectly to Paul most of the time, but uses so much baby talk with everyone else that her preschool teachers are talking about referring her for intellectual issues. Matt remembers how difficult he found it to get people to take his intellectual capabilities seriously, and he was a smart kid who tested well. People see a physical disability and think there must be a intellectual one too. If she doesn’t learn to push herself, no one else will.

Mandy sounds shocked. “I’m blind.”

The hiss of air escaping. Natasha opens a can of what smells like soda. “Your legs work, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but blind people can’t do the things other people can. I’m special.”

“Honey,” Sam says. “You can’t define yourself solely by a disability. You might not be able to do all the things your friends do, but don’t assume you’ll never be able to do something unless you try hard. I bet you can get around your school fine using that cane of yours.”

“Yeah.” The girl sounds embarrassed. “But I know it.”

“You know it because you learnt it,” Steve says calmly. “I bet if you learn other places you can walk around them fine using your cane. Matt could help you if you want. How about you learn the park?”

“Matt?” The girl asks. “Daredevil?” A note of awe in her voice.

“Yes,” Natasha says. “He needs to use a machine to talk. That takes time. But he’s standing right in front of your brother.”

Matt types a word into his small computer. It reads it out in a British accent. “Hello. I’m Matt.”

“You’re really smart,” Mandy says quickly. “You went to law school and everything. Paul says that’s really hard.”

“I studied every day,” Matt’s computer says. It hurts his heart that she assumes she can’t be smart. “Always tried my best in school and did extra reading. You can do it too if you try.”

Mandy’s not used to working hard. She stumbles on an uneven piece of ground ten seconds in and wants to stop. Matt cheers her up by mentioning all the things he’s tripped over or walked into. It’s a very long list.

He keeps it varied. She’s a five year old with a shorter attention span than usual. She knows the basic technique of using a cane, but doesn’t have much practice. They work on that for a bit. Then they play a few games identifying things by their sound or touch. Then he teaches her and Paul the proper way to guide a blind person. Paul takes to it with as much determination as he’s showed for everything else. Mandy seems genuinely amazed that there’s a way for someone to guide her without hauling her around.

It goes well until a pair of heavy footsteps heads their way. Mandy perks up with excitement. “That’s my Dad. I listened carefully like you told me to.”

Matt freezes. With his focus on the kids, he hadn’t noticed how far they’d drifted from the other’s picnic.

The man’s muscles are tense. His heart beats too fast. “What are you doing with my kids?!”

Static electricity in the air. That scent. Anger. Everything in Matt’s mind stalls. He’s supposed to do something isn’t he? He has the small computer in his hand. He should type a message, but suddenly he doesn’t remember how or what to say. He stumbles backwards.

“Dad!” Paul’s small warmth moves between Matt and his father. “You’re scaring him!”

This morning he did good because for the first time he didn’t flinch when the girl at the checkout of the grocery store asked him if he was having a nice day. He didn’t respond, and he didn’t move from Bucky’s side, but he also didn’t flinch. And this situation is so much bigger than that. His body doesn’t seem to know what to do. His hand grips the small computer tight, trying to form a fist. His legs itch to run away. His eyes burn with frustration because all he needs to do is explain and things will be fine, but he can’t remember how.

“Paul, get over here!” The man shouts. “You should know better than to talk to people like him!”

Shifting of shoes against grass as Paul changes his stance. The boy’s muscles tense. Taking a more solid stance? “Matt is a hero.”

“He’s Paul’s friend?” Mandy whispers from beside her father, sounding unsure. Her heart beats fast and scared.

“Paul’s friend?” The man sounds shocked. It quickly turns back to anger. “Just how much time have you been spending with my son? What did you do to my son you sick bastard?”

What? No. Where did he get that idea? Matt opens his mouth to defend himself, and nothing comes out. He shakes his head instead, but that doesn’t feel enough. He’s never touched either of the kids. Partly because he’s not comfortable with touching anyone outside a select few. Partly because he knows you have to be careful in this paranoid country. He’s never met Paul outside of a public place with others with him. He would never hurt a kid, ever.

He tries to use the small computer to say that. His shaking hands make it fall to the ground instead, along with the cane hanging around his wrist. Spinning around, he runs off.

***

“Hey pal.” Bucky sounds out of breath. “Bruce said you were bleeding. Can I see?”

Matt pulls the blanket tighter over his head. He doesn’t want anyone to see him now, not even Bucky. Hot frustrated tears flood down his cheeks. They haven’t stopped since throwing himself onto his bed. He still doesn’t understand why the father would assume something like that. ‘You should know better than to talk to people like him.’ What does that even mean? But that’s not the only thing he’s frustrated about.

He lives in the city where people are everywhere. Foggy has this pathological condition where he can not walk past a crying child or a crying anybody without trying to help. Matt’s not so good at ignoring crying kids either. He knows how to defend himself. He’s done it before, mainly in defence of Foggy. Foggy thinks it’s the beard that earned him those particular awkward moments in college.

He knows how to stand up for himself. But he couldn’t. He was scared, and he really really wanted to talk to explain things, but he couldn’t. And now the guy is probably even more convinced that he’s guilty, because he couldn’t defend himself, not even with the aids. It’s yet another thing he can’t do.

Fabric shifting as Bucky kneels down by the bed. “Matt. You want me to stay or go right now?”

Matt tries to keep his breathing quiet, but it’s difficult when he’s still out of breath from the run back to the house. Every now and then a sob hiccups from his mouth. Bucky must hear it.

“OK pal. I’m gonna to give you some space. Want me back tell Jarvis.” His uneven footsteps walk back to the bedroom door. “I know this was scary, but it’s over. You’re safe.”

***

The tears have stopped by the time Sam, Steve, and Natasha come back from the park an hour later. There are several fresh bite marks on his arm. One of his more worn PECS cards has a nick in the tough laminated plastic. Both his arms have so many cuts from the sharp surface that he stinks of blood.

He feels better. Hollow, but better.

Lucky snuffles hopefully outside his door. He’d been doing his mad dash around the park when it’d all happened.

There are two other heartbeats out there. Paul and his father.

“They’re not going into his bedroom,” Bucky says firmly. “Not without his permission. That’s his safe space.”

“Matt has super-hearing.” Determination in Paul’s voice. “You’ll be able to apologise from here Dad.”

The man’s voice is gruff, but not angry anymore. “Look, I made a mistake. Can’t we leave it at that?”

“You assumed that a rape victim would want to rape others,” Natasha says bluntly. “That’s more than a mistake.”

“I overreacted OK. The things people say about the video are pretty explicit. And you hear stories about people like that getting screwed up in the head and hurting others. I’m just looking out for my boy.”

“You said you wanted to come and apologise.” A growl in Steve’s voice. “Apologise or don’t, but if you’re going to say ignorant stuff like that you need to leave.”

The sound of the man swallowing hard. “If he’d explained I wouldn’t have gone off on him. Instead he acted like he had something to hide, then ran off. And I didn’t hit him or nothing. I just shouted at him.”

“He has selective mutism and severe PTSD.” Sam sounds a lot calmer than everyone else. “He couldn’t explain because he can’t talk. And he wasn’t acting like he had something to hide. He was acting terrified. You’re a male stranger the same age as his attackers and you acted aggressively towards him out of nowhere. I suspect you pushed a boatload of triggers.”

“You hurt him Dad,” Paul says. “You always tell me to apologise if I hurt someone.”

“I’m sorry.” The man’s heart flutters but not much. He means it, at least in part. “I didn’t know Paul wanted my girl to meet a blind person. I didn’t know you were trying to help. I jumped to the wrong conclusion, and I guess I’m sorry about that as well.”

Matt’s supposed to feel something about this. He’s sure of it. But when he searches, all he finds is that hollow pit in his stomach. Nothing else.

***

“Honey, I’m home!” Clint yells from the front doorway two minutes after Paul and his father leave. “And I brought a Katie-Kate. We’re going to - whoa. Who died?”

"Matt had an episode." Bucky sighs. "I'm checking on him every twenty minutes, but he's not communicating yet."

"You guys explain what happened." Sam's footsteps move toward Matt's bedroom door. "I'm going to give him this."

Steve's voice starts explaining at the same time Matt's door opens. Excited huffing from Lucky. The mattress jumps as the dog leaps onto it. Another jump as the dog flops down, resting his chin on Matt's hip.

"Hey Matt." Sam's voice is calm. His heart is steady. "I brought you your computer. You dropped it. Your cane is by the front door where you usually put it." Plastic against fabric. The small computer lands beside him on the bed. "Can you let me know what you're feeling? You can use the PECS."

His ears focus in on where the small computer landed. He remembers trying to type an explanation and not being able to figure out how. Reaching out from underneath the covers, he grabs it and throws it across the room. A loud thump as it hits the wall.

"You're really putting that through its paces lately." Sam's heart jumps. "Matt, that's a lot of blood."

Matt pulls his arm back under the covers. Lucky noses his stomach.

A fast heart-rate. Sam's worried. "Can you show me your arm so I can clean it up?"

Matt stays curled up under the covers.

"Matt. We're doing our best to respect your space, but I'm worried about your safety right now. If you don't let me check you over, I'm going to have to get Bucky to take these covers off you."

Matt listens with detachment as Sam gives him a countdown. Then the covers are being gently pulled from his grip. Bucky's hands help him sit up.

Hands tugging at his sleeve. Bucky takes a shaky breath.

Sam's footsteps walk back through the door. The smell of antiseptic in his hands. Soft click of the door closing behind him. "What did you cut yourself with Matt?"

Matt blinks slowly, that hollow feeling wrapped around him.

"Got it." Bucky's metal fingers tug at his right hand. Matt doesn't resist. "A fucking PECS card."

"Buck, you couldn't know." Click of plastic against plastic as Sam opens the first aid kit. Creak of mattress as he climbs on it. "Anything can be a weapon if you're desperate enough. All we can do is minimise opportunities and try to get him used to different outlets."

Bucky's arm around him tightens. "OK Matt, we're going to clean up these cuts. You've also skinned your palm pretty good."

"Skinned knee too." Sound of ripping as Sam makes the hole in the fabric bigger. "These sweatpants are a write off."

It takes a while for them to clean all the cuts. None of them are deep which they seem happy about, but there are a lot of them. All over his left forearm, and his right upper arm above the cast. Matt sits passively though it, leaning against Bucky.

"OK," Sam says once they're finished. "Let's try this again." Hard plastic placed on his lap.

Bucky moves his hand over it. Braille. The intervention sheet. "Come on pal. Let us know what you're feeling."

On the bottom of the sad interventions side of the plastic sheet are eight PECS cards. Happy, sad, angry, scared, frustrated, confused, hurt, surprised. Part of him wants to refuse to try. Dragging the thoughts up is difficult. But neither Bucky or Sam have told him off for hurting himself. They wait so patiently. Bucky is solid and warm by his side.

Matt's upset, but he's not upset at them. He needs to try.

He doesn't have enough energy to tear off the sad PECS card. Instead he indicates it.

"Good job Matt." A soft smile in Sam's calm voice. "I know this is difficult for you, but you're doing good work. So, are we going to choose an intervention, or can you give us a thought pattern to help you with?"

Matt's hand fumbles with the edge of the plastic sheet before Bucky figures out he wants to turn over the sheet and helps him. On the top of the other side of the page are his common anxiety interventions. At the bottom are the ten cognitive distortions and specific thought patterns he's had trouble with before. His fingers find 'I feel useless.'

"Because of the way you acted at the park?" Sam asks.

It's an effort to nod.

"How do you think you should've acted?"

Matt places a finger on his mouth.

"You think you should've talked?"

A nod, then Matt indicates the satchel hanging on his side. All this communicating is exhausting. He leans further into Bucky's side.

"Matt, your social anxiety and other issues are extreme enough that sometimes you have problems communicating even with the aids. You have issues with strangers, and people feeling angry around you. We're working on these things, but they're not going away overnight. You get that, right?"

It's been over five weeks. How much more of this is he going to have to take?

"My recovery process started around ten months ago." Bucky's voice vibrates through his side. "And I still need to get people to fetch things out of the freezer for me because I can't go near it. Think I'm useless for that?"

Matt shakes his head.

"Look pal. Right now, there are things you can do well, and things you're not so good at. Doesn't mean you can't improve. And no matter how good or bad you are at something, it doesn't affect your value as a human being. You are worth something. Always. Got that?" Bucky's heart beats truth.

Sam's heart-rate increases. Excitement? "My Little Pony has the perfect episode for this."

Matt listens to the perfect episode sitting between Steve and Bucky on the sofa bed. The weighted blanket over his legs, and Bucky's arm over his shoulders. His hand cycles between his stim toys and Lucky's fur.

It is a pretty perfect episode. Fluttershy has to confront her extreme fear of public humiliation and social anxiety in order to help her friend. A couple of ponies laugh while she's performing. Sam says it's not even clear whether the ponies were laughing at her or not. Afraid of more laughter, she appears to have some kind of crying panic attack and runs away.

She's afraid of laughter for different reasons than Matt, but the similarities make him shift uncomfortably. She's afraid of being judged, just like he is. Her fear of being judged lowers her performance, just like it does his.

Then she works hard by practising her performing in front of fake ponies. Sam pauses it to explain that it's similar to what they're doing. Exposing him to strangers and public places in a controlled environment. And what's most reassuring to Matt is this doesn't turn out to be a magic fix-it. Her performance improves, but it's still worse than the other ponies. She saves the day in the end, but only because her small contribution added to the other ponies made the difference between success and failure.

"Fluttershy is a weak flier with social anxiety," Sam says when the episode ends. "She's not good at a lot of things other ponies are great at. But she is good at things other ponies aren't good at, like communicating with animals. You might find it difficult to communicate with strangers, but you can do a lot of things others can't, like when you saved Steve, Clint, and that child from the rubble. Not to mention all those other people before them."

"And the reason Fluttershy's friends like her is not 'cause of things she can or can't do." Bucky's arm is a comforting weight over his shoulders. "It's 'cause of her innate values like kindness. We like you the same way."

"So let's try re-framing this thought," Steve says from Matt's other side. "Then we can see what we can do to try and help you feel better."

***

They've been hiking an hour when they notice Kate is missing.

It's late afternoon. Matt had chosen to finish the how to train your dragon audio-book he’s on. The latest in the series. Although he'd less listened than dozed against Bucky.

Then making an apple pie and a fruit crumble with Sam. His movements were still sluggish, but the distraction was good. He may have got distracted a few too many times playing with the sprinkled flour. The soft texture is nice, although he doesn't like the way it clings. And it's hard to concentrate when he's feeling detached.

He'd been feeling less sad, but still a little floaty when he'd agreed to join the others for a hike. No more public places today, just this. He hasn't gone on any proper trails yet, and they're leaving in the morning to go back to the city. Kate had the same idea, wanting to make the most of her short time down here.

Kate seems friendly. She talked a mile a minute at the beginning of the hike asking Sam and Bruce what this and that "creepy thing" was. She and Natasha banter like old friends. Bucky has a long conversation with her about tranquiliser arrows. Then an even longer one where she tries to convince Bucky that skittles and other arrows containing snacks are imperative to future missions.

She doesn't talk directly to him after he'd flinched the first time. No one pushes him to greet her, which is good since he's feeling more prickly about strangers than before.

His senses were so tunned in on her. Listening to her every move, and keeping Bucky between him and her. That it's not a surprise that he became stumbling tired twenty minutes into the hike. That kind of hyper-awareness isn't easy to keep up for long, especially for his senses, and especially after the drama a few hours before. Twenty minutes after that Bucky finally persuaded him to accept a piggy back ride since he refused to turn back and let anyone's hike get cut short.

It's chaos that he wakes up to, having apparently drifted off at some point.

"My last visual was ten minutes ago." Worry in Natasha's voice. "I was watching Bruce."

Movement. Sam shakes his head? "I was watching Bruce too."

Matt moves his arm from around Bucky's throat.

Bucky moves, gently lowering him to the ground. "I think we were all watching Bruce."

"Guys it's just a bee sting." Firmness in Bruce's voice. "Natasha warned me. I had time to prepare myself. I can handle it. Right now we need to find Kate."

A voice somewhere to his left. Female. Kate. "Oh great. Another tree. That helps billions. Clint's never going to let me live this down."

Rubbing his eyes, Matt heads in the direction of the voice. Lucky pads behind him.

Realisation in Sam's tone. "Oh."

"How about we follow the guy with super-senses?" Bruce says with a smile in his voice.

***

Kate is five minutes walk into the trees. Her breathing is muffled like she has her face in her hands. She stays like that long enough that Bucky clears his throat. Her heart jumps, startled.

Bucky breaks the silence. "How are you liking this nature now?"

"I never said I liked nature," Kate says stiffly. "I may have underestimated just how many trees there are out here. Take that look off your face Barnes. If you tell Clint about this I'll make you pay."

Their footsteps move back to the path. Matt takes the lead again, guiding Bucky.

"Really?" Challenge in Bucky's voice. "How?"

"You know that video of Steve and Nat singing Grease that went viral? I think the world would be dying to know that Bucky Barnes sings in the shower."

Matt spins around to direct a glare in Kate's direction. Her heart jumps.

"It's OK Matt," Natasha says, voice soft. "She's only joking."

Sam's footsteps move until they're by Kate. "It's best not to mention making a video public without the person's permission."

“Foot, meet mouth,” Kate says bitterly.

"Hey, it's fine. We didn't know about that one until recently." Bucky slings an arm over Matt's shoulders. "And you're a little on edge today, aren't you pal?"

***

Matt sits on a fleece blanket in the quietest corner of the decking at the back of the house, his fingers an inch deep in a bowl of flour.

Sam brought it to him to mess around with after they'd rushed back to the house upon hearing Tony planned to start the barbecue without them. The drive back was filled with what sounded like Russian swearwords from Natasha as she tried to reason with Tony. Bucky trying to get hold of Steve who it turned out was napping. Sam saying things like "It's fine. If the house is burnt down we still have the jet."

The house wasn’t burnt down, but the meat Tony tried to cook was so burnt that even Lucky refused to eat it.

Sam’s in charge of the barbecue now, humming as he cooks, and complaining about Tony’s choice in music. The others seem happy. Chatting and teasing each other. Smell of barbecued meat everywhere as people eat.

When they’d mentioned having a barbecue, Matt chose to have a burger. Two burgers at least Sam had said firmly. But his stomach’s still too uneasy for that. Instead he brushes his fingers through the flour, being careful to avoid the raw skin where he’d fallen running back to the house. The sensation of the soft powder is nice. He learns to brush it gently. If he pushes too hard the flour packs together and makes a horrible squeaking sound against bowl.

The strange soft sensation helps, but his nerves gradually wind tighter and tighter. Everything’s still raw from what happened at the park. Tony’s music is loud and grating. Barbecue meat, soft bread, and ketchup cling to every molecule of air. Several conversations go on at once. It’s hard to keep track. Footsteps. Sizzling meat. Rising and falling voices overlapping each other. Lucky nudges his arm, making his fingers press on the flour. It squeals against the bowl. No.

His foot pushes away tho bowl. The adhesive edges of the bandage around his skinned knee shift, sticking and unsticking. The air has too much taste. Flour clings to his hand and he can’t get it off. The heavy clanging music is like a jackhammer to his skull. He tries not to breathe. Tries not to move. Lucky nudges him, and it’s all too much.

The clanging music vanishes. The taste of cooking meat still chokes the air, but it’s easier to breathe.

A soft voice near him. Bruce. “Matt. We’re working on you asking for help when you need it. Do you need help?”

Matt swallows heavily. Nods. Tries to stop Stick from sneering in his head.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” Bruce’s voice comes from Matt’s level. Crouching a small distance away from him.

Matt’s face crumbles. It’s an effort to keep the prickling behind his eyes from turning into tears. Everything is too loud, vibrant, close. His nerves are stretched so tight he can practically feel them ping as they break. It’s as bad as one of his migraines without the pain to go with the increased sensitivity. He almost wishes there was pain. Then he’d have something else to concentrate on.

A slight increase in Bruce’s heartbeat. “You could use your PECS book?”

Matt shakes his head. He can’t.

“Why don’t you want to use your book?”

Matt blinks a few times to keep the stupid tears where they belong, then gingerly raises his arm, keeping it far away from the rest of his body.

“Oh.” Bruce’s heart jumps. “You want the flour off.”

Yes. Yes. He nods. It was nice and soft, but now it’s just clingy and annoying. His hand smells too different from the rest of him. When his fingers touch he can feel the individual grains of flour scraping between them. He can’t touch anything for fear of spreading it. He wants it off.

“This is sensory overload, isn’t it?” No change in Bruce’s heartbeat. Maybe he’d suspected that all along.

Matt nods his head. As a kid he’d never looked into why there were times where everything became too much, even using Stick’s training. Choosing to ignore it instead and try to push through. Then he’d had an episode around Foggy, and he’d said “sensory overload” like it was a normal thing, and known exactly what to do. Matt knows what to do now as well, but those tactics only really work when he’s not too overloaded to move.

“OK,” Bruce says. “If you can take the pressure I’d like to put your headphones on. Then you can either have a bath or I’ll help you wash the flour off your hand. Then some quiet time. Does that sound alright?”

Matt nods, relieved.

***

It’s evening by the time Matt’s curled up in the hammock chair, trying to eat a burger.

Bruce knew what to do even better than Foggy did. Setting him up under a weighted blanket and duvet with an hour long guided meditation Bruce said he liked using when he gets overloaded. It helped. He hadn’t realised just how much his meditation technique had lapsed until the guided meditation broke things down for him and walked him through it. He thinks he might use a few more guided meditations until he gets the hang of the basics again.

“Is this nail polish?” Kate asks from outside. Awe in her voice.

“He borrowed mine,” Natasha says. “Clear nail polish to cover the newspaper beads and make them waterproof.”

“Also keeps out oil stains,” Tony says proudly. “Adds a certain boldness to my look, don’t you think?”

A smile in Steve’s voice. “He hasn’t taken it off since Matt gave it to him.”

“Purely for fashion reasons of course.” Sudden stiffness in Tony’s voice. “Several reporters in New Delhi asked about it. It’s a conversation piece.”

“Sure,” Bucky says sarcastically. “That’ll be why you posed with it on tumbler, grinning like a loon.”

“Fine. The puppy is adorable and makes adorable things. Also it goes with my shoes.” Tony’s footsteps move further away. Onto the softer sound of grass. Towards the woods maybe. “Little miss spider, if you have a minute?”

Natasha’s footsteps follow him.

“Clint showed me his, but the dumbass only has like three beads left so I couldn’t get a good look at it. I can’t believe he made something so nice out of newspaper. The one time I tried to make something out of newspaper I glued my hands to the table.”

Clinking of ceramic. Sam clears plates away? “You should see the roses he made.”

Plastic against fabric. Bucky? Takes something out of his pocket. “Got pictures here.”

“Wow.” A considering tone in Kate’s voice. “You guys have pretty much adopted him, haven’t you? The cute pictures Clint puts on his tumblr. The oddly patronising way Tony talks about him. The way you all seem so in tune with him. I feel like I should’ve brought you a ‘congratulations for the new addition’ card or something.”

Bruce’s voice is quiet. “You’ll understand when you get to know him.”

“Yeah.” Shuffling. She sounds bitter. “I don’t see how that’s going to happen. Already messed that up.”

“He’s just unsure around you,” Steve says. “He was the same around all of us when we first met. Strangers. And I think he’s still feeling shaky from the episode this morning. He’ll get there.”

“Earth to Matt. Come in Matt.”

Matt blinks, detaching himself from the conversation outside to turn his face in Clint’s direction.

Clint’s voice comes from close to the mattress of the sofa bed, but his warmth carries on far above that. Upside down over the back of the sofa. “You gonna eat that or just tear it into pieces?”

The burger is spread out across his plate in several tiny pieces. Oh. He puts a piece into his mouth. Chews carefully. The chair hammock sways slightly from side to side.

Outside Tony asks Natasha to fill him in on the case. Natasha tells him Jessica hasn’t found the guy with the missing thumb. No one with an injury like that checked into any of the ERs in New York within a few hours of the rape.

“Matt said he thought that one was rich, right?” Tony asks. “So private care. No slumming it in an ER for him.”

“That’s what she thought.” Grimness in Natasha’s voice. “But that’s a lot harder to track. I’ve cleared the next couple of weeks. Excluding when I’m needed for Avenger emergencies, I’m going lend Jessica a hand.”

“Eat Matt. Come on. Please?” Movement. Smell of plastic. Clint still has Petrie and Little Foot. “Nom, nom, nom.” Is he pretending to make the dinosaurs eat?

Matt frowns, but he eats.

***

“Excuse me Mr Murdock,” Jarvis’s voice says from the ceiling of his bedroom early Friday morning. “There’s a problem that could benefit from your assistance.”

Matt waits expectantly. He’d gone to sleep early last night, partly because the day exhausted him, but mostly to avoid Kate. As a result he’s awake and packed even before Steve stirs.

“I believe Miss Bishop is wandering rather aimlessly through the woods and appears to be lost. Perhaps you would be so kind as to guide her back to the house?”

Again? What is it with her and getting lost?

***

“What is it with me and getting lost?” Kate’s shoes crunch through undergrowth. “Ugh. Trees. Why are you so terrible? Why do you look the same? This is America. Stand out. Be proud. Show some individualism- oh. Hey Matt.”

Matt stays a distance away from her, Lucky a warm presence by his side. Muscles tense, he turns around, waving at her to follow him.

“Thought I’d get a walk in.” Kate’s footsteps jog after him. “You know. Get some nature while I’m in nature. Only I’m getting the impression nature doesn’t like me much.”

She’s moving too fast. Getting too close. He raises a palm flat towards her to get her to back off.

Her footsteps halt. “I’m getting the impression you don’t like me much either.”

Matt shrugs a shoulder. Walks stiffly in the direction of the house. Usually he wouldn’t be so harsh, but he’s feeling bitter about strangers since yesterday. Strangers are unpredictable. They can trigger him in the time it takes to laugh, or step too close, or say a few words. They can turn him from calm and enjoying himself to full out panic attack just by shouting at him.

Interacting with strangers is like walking through a minefield. Maybe it’s better if he steers clear of them completely. It would be easier than his emotions going haywire all the time.

“Clint said it could take some time for you to warm up to me.” Her feet walk slowly behind him. Subdued. “I didn’t believe him. Thought I could bowl you over with my dazzling personality.”

Yeah. That’s not going to happen. It’s unfair to her. He knows that. And it’s not her fault. She just had bad timing to turn up when she did. She’s a stranger. He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t know if his mind is going to go bright with panic if she laughs. He doesn’t know if she’s prone to making sudden movements like Clint and Tony. Most of his triggers tend to come from people he doesn’t know. She’s a person he doesn’t know, and he’s fed up of being triggered.

“Because I had another reason for coming down here to meet you. And it would’ve gone so much better if we’d hit it off as BFFs from the start.” Determination creeps into her voice, building as she continues. “I could tell from Clint that you weren’t handling it well. And for me therapy helped tons and sucked ass, but what really helped me was knowing I wasn’t alone. That I wasn’t the only one something like that happened to.”

Matt’s feet stop moving.

“It lasted ten minutes tops, and it ruined my life. You hear about that kind of thing happening, but you think not me, right? It’ll never happen to me. Then it does. So you start thinking what did I do wrong? What can I do to make sure it never happens again? So I trained to make sure it never happened. Archery, self defence, anything I could learn. But putting all that pressure on myself made things worse. I was still scared. Until my therapist suggested I attend a support group. Without my father’s permission of course. He wouldn’t want to risk his daughter being recognised and linked to a ‘scandal’ like that.” Bitterness in her voice. “There were people from all backgrounds, with all kinds of different stories. I realised that assuming I could guarantee my safety by changing myself was stupid. That took the pressure off, and since then I train because I want to, not to protect myself against some faceless monster. And talking to all those people. Hearing their stories. It helped me accept what happened in a way nothing else could. So yeah. I may not have your friendship. I may never have your friendship. But at least you know you’re not the only one who’s been torn apart by something like this.”

She sounds young. It takes years to reach the skill level Clint says she has. That means she must’ve been a young teen at most when it happened. Jesus. A kid.

“So are we going to stand around awkwardly all day?” She asks, a hidden note of tentativeness in her voice. “Because I still have no clue how to get out of these woods.”

Matt grimaces, then signs ‘sorry.’

“It’s cool.” Slight movement. A shrug? “I just want to be back before Steve goes on his run so I can beg him to make pancakes for breakfast.”

Matt shakes his head. Signs ‘sorry’ again.

“Oh,” she says softer. “That’s cool too.”

***

Matt sits on the floor of his empty bedroom, against the stripped bed.

Everyone moves about haphazardly in the rest of the house, packing things, like they have since they came back from their run. Paul had been there to say goodbye, with his father and sister a distance away, waiting. Matt had been nervous, but nothing went wrong.

The small computer is on his knees as he navigates through one of the websites Sam sent him. Like Sam said it’s a large forum for survivors of sexual abuse. The other link is for sufferers of PTSD. He thinks they’ll both be useful. Navigating using his screen reader is difficult. Threads with triggering contents are labelled ‘triggering.’ He avoids those for now.

There’s a sub-forum of articles about self harm. Another sub-forum of articles on rape and sexual abuse that has one article dispelling the myths of male sexual assault, and another on gang rape. He gets the screen-reader to read out the article on gang rape a few times. It says the audience factor of gang rape can leave you feeling uncomfortable with any audience, supportive or otherwise. He supposes the video would add to that. More people watching him and not helping.

It says the powerlessness of being raped by a group of people with no one on your side can lead to feeling anxious and intimidated in social situations. Confrontation can leave you feeling frightened. Yes, Fiona’s covered some of this, but not all. It would be impossible for her to cover everything and still teach him tactics he can use. So it’s good that he’s finally giving this a chance. It’s not as bad as he thought. The articles are written gently. The gang rape one ends with a reminder that he can get through the recovery process.

The public forum has the same ‘it’s not your fault’ exercise Fiona gives him from time to time. Naming reasons why he thinks the rape is his fault, then coming up with reasons why they’re not true. Many people have contributed, cheering each other on. A thread about the pros and cons of telling your story has people saying over and over again that telling helped them. One poster says their symptoms always get worse if they try to hold the details in. Another says they always tell someone the contents of a flashback after they have one. About the only cons mentioned is telling before you’re ready to deal with the emotions it brings up. To start talking about it slowly instead.

It’s exactly the kind of things Fiona’s been telling him, but hearing it from people who’ve experienced it first hand makes him consider it more seriously.

Kate’s right. Knowing he’s not alone makes a difference.

“Mr Murdock,” Jarvis says from the ceiling. “The others are finished packing and would like to know if you’re ready to leave.”

Putting the computer back in his satchel, he gets up to meet them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The websites Sam sent Matt are:
> 
> https://www.myptsd.com/c/ and http://pandys.org/forums/ The threads and articles Matt visited are in the second forum.
> 
> Suicidal thoughts: Matt has a safety plan. I've lost the link to the resource I used, but here's a basic idea how to make one: https://www.verywell.com/suicide-safety-plan-1067524
> 
> On his intervention sheet he has a quick version of his safety plan. It looks a little like this: http://www.bing.com/images/search?q=safety+plan+suicide+cards&view=detailv2&&id=686F67E98E5EAA1A3FEDA2E83845DF8C70B0E719&selectedIndex=0&ccid=D8J1RJgV&simid=608050018762359448&thid=OIP.M0fc2754498154e296024f18f47e588d9o0&ajaxhist=0
> 
> Look up safety plan cards for more examples. It's useful to have a very quick easy go to. This is where the coping phrases Sam gave him are written. ‘These feelings will pass.’ ‘These are horrible thoughts, but they’re just thoughts, I don’t need to act on them.’
> 
> Matt is working on recognizing negative thoughts / cognitive distortions and reframing the thoughts. Here are the cognitive distortions http://www.harleytherapy.co.uk/cognitive-distortions-cbt.htm He also has his most common negative thinking patterns as PECS cards so he can hand one to someone and they can understand why he's upset and help him reframe or problem solve. 
> 
> Sometimes talking about why he's upset helps, but sometimes Matt has to use a different intervention. He has his favorite ones on his intervention sheet. These are good for distracting from suicidal or self harm thoughts, and lowering depression or anxiety levels. They will be highly individual to the person, but here's a general list of ideas: 
> 
> https://sirius-project.org/2011/08/16/distractions-and-alternatives-to-self-harm/
> 
> Matt for example likes boxing and throwing ice when he's anxious, and soft blankets and physical contact when he's depressed. 
> 
> Panic attacks: Deep breathing is a useful technique to know in any panic attack. Use google for guides. A quick tip I find useful that not all the guides have is to place a hand on your stomach. Try to breathe deep enough to make your stomach move your hand. 
> 
> Matt grounds himself during a panic attack or flashback by focusing on something specific like counting his breathing or focusing on things he can touch. Simple logical games help. Someone with sight might count the number of objects of a specific color in a room. Matt analyses textures, tries to sense or categorize objects, or plays with his marble maze which is a great grounding tool for him.
> 
> The others help Matt ground himself during a flashback by reminding him where he is and who's around him. This helps him realize he's not in the past. They also offer touch or medication, keep talking to give him something to focus on, and walk him through grounding himself through objects like he usually does for himself. These are very individual to Matt (shown by how everyone else but Foggy tended to give Matt more space in his flashbacks. Touch is usually a big no no during a flashback as the person can get panicked. However you do get some like Matt who can find it useful, though even he can still get spooked.)


	34. Chapter 34

“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It’s been six weeks and three days since my last confession.” The words come out. He’d only remembered after sliding into the confessional after the lone patron who must’ve requested an out of hours confession slipped out, that this wasn’t going to work if he couldn’t speak. The computer would allow him a disjointed conversation using the screen-reader, but there would be long pauses and no emotions.

But he can speak. Somehow he can speak.

Father Lantom’s heart jumps. A soft gasp that fills the confessional.

Matt grips his cane, leaning against it. Swallows deeply. “I was raped.”

Something dark in Father Lantom’s tone. “That’s not a sin Matthew.”

It takes a few moments to make his breathing even again. It’s the first time he’s said those words out loud. No explosions or chaos. He’d half expected some. “I’ve - I’ve acted on my emotions. Often violently. I’ve hurt people I care about.”

Father Lantom’s voice softens. “Did you mean to hurt them?”

Matt thinks back to the time he hit Foggy across the coffee table. He hadn’t been aware of what he was doing then. “No - I - no.”

The priest sighs. It echoes strangely against the thin wood of the confessional. “I’ve met a great deal of people in my life. Heard a lot of sins. I’ve come to believe there are different kinds. Ones that are cold and calculated. Others that are mistakes. For mistakes you can do little more than ask for the forgiveness of the one you harmed. Perhaps an act of service to balance the scales. Is there anything that would give them happiness?”

“He says - he says all he wants is for me to keep trying to get better.” Matt twists the handle of the cane, letting his ears drift to check Steve is where he left him. Yep, still outside on the bench. “It’s difficult.”

“Very few things worth doing are easy.”

“When they were hurting me, I thought about killing them. I told them I would.” Matt leans his head back against wood. Wishes he’d brought Lucky inside with him, instead of leaving the dog with Steve. But while Lucky is useful, he’s not stealthy, and he hadn’t wanted the other patron to spot him. “Afterwards I haven’t thought about that at all. I’m not - I’m not angry at them. I’m angry at myself. I’m always angry at myself. And I keep thinking about - I think I tried to -” He shakes his head rapidly. “It’s not for us to decide to take a life, even if it’s your own life.”

Father Lantom’s heart-rate increases. “Matthew. Does anyone know you’re having these kind of thoughts?”

“Yeah. Everyone knows. I’m under full surveillance.” He smiles. It feels too jagged for his face. “Have a safety plan and everything. But I still have thoughts. And sometimes there are opportunities. I think maybe it’s gotten close a couple times.”

“I’ll remind you what the bible tells us about suicide if you think that will help stay your hand,” Father Lantom says slowly. “But I think a therapist will do a better job at this than a priest. You do have a therapist, don’t you? The press release mentioned you were undergoing treatment.”

“Yeah. She’s good. None of it comes naturally. But I think it helps.”

“Then whatever penance I give will include participating in therapy and doing whatever your therapist thinks will stop these thoughts from happening. I know stoically bearing suffering is entrenched in the catholic culture, but I for one admire therapy in the same way I admire other branches of modern medicine. And think of it this way. If you are not taking advantage of every means to clear yourself of these thoughts, aren’t you encouraging the sin?”

He hadn’t thought of it that way before.

“I believe strong emotions are God’s way of guiding us,” Father Lantom says. “I won’t admit to being a therapist, but in my experience I’ve never met a suicidal person who wanted to die. But I’ve met several who wanted some painful experience to stop. Perhaps these feelings are a message telling you it’s time to rest. To remove some of the pressure I know you’re putting on yourself.”

Matt grits his teeth. “While I’ve been - while I’ve been resting, people have been out there dying.”

“Matthew.” Firmness in Father Lantom’s voice. “You can’t save everyone.”

“No. I know.” He takes a deep breath. Tries to keep his senses fixed on the church and not the noises from the buildings around it. The church smells like warm stone, so many people, burnt wax. “I’m trying to know that. I’m trying to rest too. After this we’re actually going to play with puppies at a rescue centre.”

Father Lantom’s heart jumps. Surprise. A smile in his voice. “Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from a sacred duty like that. For your penance, keep participating in therapy for your friend. Keep fighting your battle against suicidal thoughts. Keep trying to get well, for your sake, and that of the ones who care about you, including myself.”

Matt repeats the act of contrition prayer, then gets to his feet.

Door creaking as Father Lantom exits the confessional. “You should stop by for a latte sometime, like you used to. Fill me in on what it’s like to live with Captain America.”

“He’s - he’s actually waiting outside if you want to meet him.” Matt follows Father Lantom down the aisle of the empty church. His words don’t dry up. Whatever part of his mind says it’s OK to talk must be responding to Father Lantom rather than the confessional. Maybe they’ve talked about enough personal stuff in the past that all of this is no different.

Father Lantom’s heart races so fast for a moment Matt’s worried he’s having a heart-attack. Looks like he’s a Captain America fan.

***

There’s a man crying.

He’s giving the girl they met at the front desk a long complicated story. He has cancer. His boss fired him because he missed too many shifts due to treatments. Without health insurance his savings are tapped dry. He’s getting kicked out, and while he’s been offered some couches to surf, no one is willing to take in his dog. He’s desperately looking for a no kill rescue centre to take him in.

Only they don’t want to leave each other. The dog whines, picking up on his owner’s distress, and the man cries.

“No Matt,” Foggy says, snapping him back to the small yard with all its leaping puppies. “You are surrounded with cuteness. It’s not supposed to be possible to look that sad when you’re surrounded with this much cuteness.”

Kate’s footsteps approach him. A fast heartbeat in her arms. “Stay perfectly still Matt. I’m going to cover you in puppies. No one can be sad covered in puppies.”

Some kind of movement from Foggy. Kate’s warmth lowers until she’s crouching in front of Matt.

Something warm and wiggly placed on his lap. He reaches his fingers towards it and it licks them. The little warm bundle doesn’t stop moving. Jumping off his lap to rush around him, clamber over the snoozing Lucky, and jump back on his lap again. It tugs at his sleeve, then does another couple of circuits.

Matt frowns. It’s cute, and Bucky and Steve seem happy covered with puppies of their own, but it doesn’t stop the man crying.

“Well, I’ve got nothing.” Movement. Kate slumps? “Puppies has never not worked before.”

“I’ve got this.” Shifting of fabric as Foggy crouches next to him. “Go socialise the puppies or whatever we’re really supposed to be doing here.”

Determination in Kate’s footsteps as she moves away. “I’m going to find the cutest puppies and take a selfie with them. Send it to Clint and make him cry with jealousy.”

The puppy climbs onto his lap again to nip at his fingers. It makes a tiny growling sound.

“Come on Matt.” Foggy nudges his arm. “Let’s see those communication skills we’ve been working on in action. What’s with the sad face?”

Kate’s too close for him to talk easily, and he’s always more unsettled in new places. He digs the small computer out of his satchel instead. The puppy falls off his lap. Sharp movement as it shakes itself.

‘There’s a man giving up his dog at the front desk,’ Matt begins. He’s getting good at typing one handed. It takes seconds to give Foggy the full story.

Foggy hums consideringly. Flesh against fur as he wrestles? the puppy. “I know we keep telling you that you can’t save everyone, but I think this time we can do something. Sounds like an unlawful dismissal case to me. And I’m sure Pepper has some vacancies in that tower of hers. Only yesterday she was complaining about needing to hire some people to run interference between R and D and the other floors.”

Matt jerks upright. ‘Leaving,’ he types.

“Well come on then hero. Let’s go save the day.”

***

“Then Matt got in his path and finger spelled wait, and signed please.” The couch in his and Foggy’s apartment vibrates slightly from Foggy’s constant movements. Enthusiasm in his voice. By Matt’s count it’s the third time he’s recounted this story. “The guy didn’t understand of course, and he was kind of gruffly and upset, but Matt stood his ground. Then he pointed back at where I was heroically charging towards them. Totally not out of breath or drenched with sweat. And the guy finally decided to hang around long enough for me to talk to him. And yeah, we saved the day. His case should be a slam dunk, and he’s taking an interview for a job at the tower right now.”

Matt tries not to grimace as the needle goes in. The sensation of cold flowing through his veins afterwards is just as bad. His second of three hep B vaccinations.

Claire removes the needle. Then there’s something soft pressed to his inner elbow. Cotton wool. “Brand new stranger. New environment. Confrontation. Isn’t that some pretty big progress?”

“Yup.” Warmth in Foggy’s voice. “I’ll be wearing my proud face for a while. Beware the two AM texts detailing exactly how awesome my friend is. I’m at my most poetic at two AM.”

Claire swaps the cotton wool for a plaster. The adhesive sticks uncomfortably. Ugh, and it’s on a joint as well. It’s going to pinch and pull whenever he bends his arm. “Poetic, yes. Coherent, no. And how is it we always end up talking about bananas, avocados, or other fruit?”

“I have no idea.” Movement as Foggy shakes his head. “I think I’ve just had so many arguments with Steve and Bucky about bananas that it’s seeped into my subconscious. And avocados are integral to my friendship with Matt. Like getting a tattoo of an avocado level integral. Which I still think is a great idea.”

Matt shakes his arm until the sleeve of his hoodie falls down. “I’m not - not going to get a tattoo of an avocado. I - I couldn’t even see it.”

Claire’s heart jumps as clicking of plastic says she’s clearing up her supplies. When was the last time he talked around her?

“That sucks buddy.” The good mood doesn’t disappear from Foggy’s voice. “Not even with your super-senses?”

“Not once it st-stops hurting.”

“Aw. I had a plan and everything. We were each going to get half an avocado. Then Karen was going to get the seed. Your blindness is a party pooper Matt.”

That does sound nice. Before it would’ve been stupid for Daredevil to get an identifying mark, particularly one that could lead him back to Foggy. But with his face spread everywhere, and everyone knowing the link between him and Foggy it’s not like that would make a difference now. Even if he couldn’t see it, Foggy could describe it to him sometimes. Having something etched on his skin that announced to the world that he and Foggy would always be linked together is tempting.

“That’s your considering face,” Foggy crows. “I’m going to win this argument.”

Matt shakes his head. Turning his face towards Foggy with a fond expression.

“You’re only down two pounds this week.” The couch moves as Claire sits between Matt and Foggy. “That’s progress, but it’s still not good enough. I need you gaining weight. Got it?”

Matt huffs. “I a-ate that disgusting weight gain drink every day.”

“I’ve looked at your food diary.” Flesh against fabric. She hugs herself. “You’re still skipping meals. Stopping after only a couple of bites. The amount of exercise you’re doing every day is insane. That energy doesn’t come from nowhere. I worry, OK.”

“I know.” Matt leans over the side of the sofa, finding Lucky’s heartbeat so he can ruffle his ears. “It’s not like I do it on purpose. It’s just difficult sometimes.”

“We get that,” Foggy says. “I’ll ask Steve at lunch. He might have some ideas.”

“Matt. How’s everything else going?” Claire asks, sounding oddly hushed for her. “Your arm.”

Of course. The cuts and bite marks. It’s still a little swollen from yesterday, but he’s gotten so used to feeling banged up that it hadn’t registered that she’d see it. “Yesterday was a bad day, but today I’m doing much better. Really Claire.” He straightens. Tries to give her a smile. “I’m looking forward to getting coffee and cakes from Stacy. I think I can do all of it this time. I m-mean. Not t-t-talk. And - and I know it’s not. It’s not much, but…”

“It’s a big thing to you.” Tense muscles in her arms, like she’s holding herself tighter to stop from reaching out. “So it’s a big thing to me too.”

***

Matt hands the list to Stacy.

Yes, his mind focuses too much on the people eating at the tables at the back of the giant room. Yes, he leans against Bucky’s side, and is very careful about dropping the list on the counter quickly so Stacy doesn’t brush his hand reaching for it. Yes, his heart beats way too fast for such a simple task.

But he does it.

“I take coffees, you take cakes?” Bucky asks.

Matt nods, manoeuvring the paper bag so he can hold it with his right hand. It’s still strapped to his chest, but the fingers grip almost as good as his left now. This way he can hold onto Bucky’s elbow with his good hand.

They’re half way to the elevator when he pauses, turns around. Matt’s feet shuffle self consciously before he steels himself and signs ‘thank you’ at Stacy.

A grin in Stacy’s voice. “My. Another gentleman. However will I cope with you fine men sweeping me off my feet?”

“A lovely dame like you?” A grin in Bucky’s voice too. “How could any man resist?”

Matt walks towards the elevator, tugging at Bucky’s elbow. He’s happy he managed to do that, and he hopes that Foggy will be happy too, but he wants to get back now. Foggy, Claire, Steve, Karen, and Clint will be waiting for their coffees. And his heart’s still beating too fast. Go up to the communal floor. Drop off the coffees and cakes. Then a session boxing with Bucky before he’s calm enough to eat his own lunch.

On the other side of the floor someone laughs.

A small chuckle and he might’ve gotten away with it. Instead it’s loud heavy laughter. He flinches. The paper bag slips out of his hand. Sudden movement. Sound of tearing paper. Quick smacking chewing sounds. Lucky eats the cakes.

“Aw crap we-” Bucky’s voice softens. “Hey Matt, it’s OK. It’s no big deal.”

Burning feeling in his eyes as they fill up with liquid that spills over one side of his face, then the other. It is a big deal. He was doing it. Everything was going fine. Then he gets spooked by a laugh. And now everything is ruined.

“Come on pal. Let’s get out of here.”

Matt’s grip on Bucky’s elbow drags him into the close air currents of the elevator. Lucky’s paws pad in behind them. Wet sound as the dog licks its lips. Large heavy tears tumble down Matt’s cheeks, to his chin, making a splattering sound against the metal floor. They were supposed to bring the cakes to the others. Stacy only keeps teacake and biscuits at her coffee counter. They were ordered especially from a bakery before Matt came down here.

All Matt had to do was bring them up a few floors. That’s all. It shouldn’t be so difficult. He shouldn’t still be reacting so badly to simple things.

A whoosh sound as the elevator doors close, but the floor beneath them doesn’t move.

Bucky’s elbow moves in his grip. Cardboard against metal as he sets the coffees on the floor. “Take a deep breath. It was just an accident. They’ll understand.”

Matt shakes his head. Everything goes kind of fuzzy. He lowers himself to the ground before he falls down. Lucky nudges him. He pushes the dog’s muzzle away before giving him a back off signal.

“Hey.” Bucky’s warmth crouches in front of him. He’s not sure when that happened. “Not the mutt’s fault either. You’d do the same thing if a bag of cakes fell on your head.”

Each breath feels like knives in his lungs. Every time he scrubs away the tears, more fall. “It’s my - it’s my f-f-fault.”

“It was a mistake Matt.” Movement as Bucky shakes his head. “An accident. You’re allowed to make mistakes.”

“I’m not.” He shakes his head. Rocking helps him focus. He lets himself do it. The tears finally start to slow. “Mistakes get you killed. I’m not allowed to make mistakes.” He knows Fiona says he’s human, that he’s allowed to make mistakes. But Stick said mistakes were dangerous. That if he lets himself get lazy and make even a small mistake it’ll become a habit, and that habit will get him killed. And maybe Stick is right. After all, it was a mistake that got him here in the first place.

“Who told you that?”

Matt shakes his head again. Gripping his satchel he tries to focus on his breathing. It’s difficult. The others are waiting for their cakes. Matt said he’d get them.

“Look. Maybe mistakes get you killed on the battlefield, or when you’re out doing your ninja stuff. But even then, if you make a mistake it’s not something you beat yourself up about this badly. You pick yourself up, brush yourself off, get lectured by me if you’re Steve, then figure out how you’re going to avoid making that mistake again. And that’s big stupid ass ‘get yourself shot’ mistakes or ‘get yourself buried alive without anyone knowing your location’ mistakes. Not this. You weren’t doing anything stupid. You were doing everything right. A lot of people wouldn’t even think this counts as a mistake. It’s more an accident.”

Matt shakes his head stubbornly. Scrubs the rest of the tears away with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I-I shouldn’t have gotten distracted.”

“It was an accident Matt. You know how many things Clint drops in a day? And he’s one of the highest skilled people I’ve ever met.” Movement as Bucky shakes his head. “Come on pal. Take some deep breaths with me. You’re anxious.”

White hot burns him from the inside out. He slams a fist on the elevator floor. “Not anxious! Angry!”

“OK.” Strange pattern of warmth. Bucky holds up his hands, palms towards Matt in a calm down gesture. “Wanna talk? Or wanna try an intervention?”

“Fed up with stupid inter-inter-” Matt growls. “Stupid plastic sheet.”

“Wanna talk then?” Strange metal against metal as Bucky leans back against the elevator floor.

That’s even worse. “Hate talking.”

Shifting of strange metal as Bucky leans back on his arm. “So we’re going to sit on the floor of the elevator a while?”

Matt rocks slightly. Moves his hand to grip his hair. “They need their- don’t have - they don’t have cake.”

“No use crying over split cake.” Bucky’s flesh hand moves Matt’s satchel from his side. Movement of the material as Bucky looks through it. “I know you’re stuck on the emotional side of this. But think of this logically like you do your distortions. We don’t have cake. You insist they need cake. They sell donuts on the cafeteria floor, and simple iced cakes, we could bring some of them instead.”

Something soft brushes the hand tangled in his hair. Relaxing his grip he reaches out. The marble maze. “Those aren’t the cakes on the list. Has to be - has to be right. Have to do this right.”

“Think we’re getting into all or nothing thinking there pal.”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t throw the marble maze across the elevator. “Don’t care about fucking cognitive - cognitive dis-dis-dis-” He roars, slamming the fist clenching the marble maze into his head.

“Work with me here pal. You know you can’t just throw all your tactics out the window. Breathe, and either choose an intervention or tell me what’s going on in that head of yours.”

Matt tries to unclench his fist from around the marble maze. “I dropped the cakes.”

“Got that pal.”

His next breath comes out wet. “Bucky, I dropped the cakes.”

“Yeah I know.” Softness in Bucky’s voice. “You dropped the cakes. It was an accident. How do you feel about that?”

“I’m bad.” The words sit in the air for a long moment before others come rushing out to join them. Each word drips with anger. “I’m weak. Pathetic. Worthless. I waste people’s time. I can’t do anything. I keep making mistakes. It’s my fault. Everything is my fault because he taught me better. I know better. I should be better. I want things I don’t deserve. And I can’t even do simple fucking things in return. I want to die! I want to be dead, because I hate being around myself so fucking much I can’t imagine how everyone else must feel. I can’t keep putting everyone through this. It’ll be easier if I was gone.”

Bucky’s heart does something funny. Speeds up, he thinks. It’s hard to tell when he’s this worked up. “I know you said no interventions from your list, but how would you feel about a hug right now?”

God yes. Matt nods shakily.

The warm arm and cold one wrap around him. Bucky’s chin rests on his shoulder. “That’s a lot of feelings about dropping some cakes.”

Something that might be a laugh, might be a sob, breaks through his lips. Tears in his eyes again. At least they’re not falling. “Yeah.”

“OK, I’d like to address a few of those now if that’s alright? The rest you can save for Natasha when she gets back from her play-date with Jessica.”

Matt nods against Bucky’s shoulder. He’s too drained right now to argue. All that white hot anger gone with all those words he managed to spit out. He still can’t believe he said all those things.

“You may hate being around you, but I sure as hell don’t. Hanging out with you is one of my favourite parts of every day. I consider you a friend Matt, and that’s a title I don’t give away lightly. Most of my favourite moments of the past few weeks involve you. Making pancakes with you. Playing board games. Every time you take it on yourself to act like a brat. None of that was time wasted.” Bucky takes a deep breath. It echoes through Matt. “And if you died it’ll be the second worst experience in my life, and the first was when they told me Steve was dead. I can’t lose you Matt. It wouldn’t be easier if you were gone. It’d be fucking miserable.”

Matt sags against Bucky. With the words out his breathing finally slows. “I’m a lot of work.”

“Ain’t denying that. That’s why we’re all trying to take turns helping you when you’re anxious. That and everyone wants to spend time with you.” Bucky’s heart beats truth. “Don’t know how the hell you did it. When you first came I was the only one not enthusiastic about having you around. ‘Cause you were new, and a stranger popping out of nowhere to live with us isn’t my idea of a good time. And Steve and Clint were so fired up about finding and helping you that I figured once you were here they’d bond with you and spend less time on me. Then, I don’t know. I guess you won everyone over including me. You’re worth every bit of hard work. Got that?”

It’s all a lot to take in. Matt slowly measures out his breaths instead. Bucky’s heartbeat helps. “I still want to get the right cakes.”

Bucky sighs. “Matt…”

He’s still a little shaky, but it’s easier to think. “I know it’s all or nothing thinking. I know that. But I want to do this.”

“This is such a bad idea.” Bucky straightens up out of the hug. “But I guess we needed to up the ante anyway. We’ll try it.”

***

The others are drinking their coffees by the time Matt and Bucky come back from the bakery with the cakes.

Bucky said this was only going to work if Matt communicated his anxiety levels honestly. So Matt was honest and ended up staying in the car when it parked near Ed’s bakery. He’s still trembling a little by the time they get back to the tower. He’s getting used to not wearing his headphones around the noise of the city, and anxiety makes things more difficult to filter out. He’d had a couple of small flashbacks. Nothing big enough to make him more than flinch.

“This is the most delicious looking caramel shortcake I’ve seen,” Claire says with awe.

“Foggy had to leave. Marci wanted to meet.” Karen smells freshly showered. She’d spent most of the morning sparring with Clint. “Something about the case I think.”

It’s a big case. A lot of things to prepare. And they only have about another week until trial starts.

Fabric against wood as Clint shifts eagerly in his chair. “Does this mean I get his peanut butter and jelly cookie bar?”

“It means his cake goes in the fridge with a firm note saying no one but him is allowed to eat it.” Wood against wood as Steve scrapes his chair back to presumably do just that.

“Come on Matt.” Movement from Bucky. “I’m waving you over here. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Several minutes of solid punching later and Matt collapses into the chair next to Karen. The smell of fresh green leaves, other vegetables, chicken, and prawns in front of him.

Clinking of metal against ceramic. Karen finishes her meringue? “Can I fix your hair Matt?”

Matt shrugs. Using his fork to gauge exactly how much salad is on his plate. A lot. It’s stuff he likes, but he’s not sure how he’s going to eat all of it.

“I think we’ve come up with an idea for your eating problem Matt,” Steve says. Metal against ceramic. He’s still eating. Not the cake Matt brought him. The leftover apple pie Matt and Sam made yesterday. Sam did say he liked it. “Clear your plate at least two meals a day, and drink your Complan. If you reach the end of the day and haven’t done that, you need to drink another Complan.”

Two weight gain drinks in one day? Steve’s more evil than he thought. Matt makes a disgusted face.

Flesh against wood as Bucky fall into the chair to the right of Matt. “What’d you expect Matt? A walk in the park? You need more incentive to down your food. And you need to keep talking to us. Keep telling us what makes it difficult for you to eat so we can help you.”

Karen hums happily, stroking her fingers through his hair way too long to just be fixing it. “I think it’s a great idea.”

Of course she does. She’s not the one who has to eat the terrible Complan, with its artificial tastes and its gritty texture. Ugh, he can still taste it from this morning.

“Clear your plate Matt,” Claire says firmly. “Then you won’t have to worry about another weight gain drink tonight.”

“You get chocolate fudge cake afterwards,” Clint stage whispers.

Matt grumbles, but starts to eat. He’ll do it for the chocolate fudge cake.

***

“Don’t know,” Matt says for what feels like the thousandth time that evening.

It’d been a big day. Seems like every day feels like a big day recently. Bucky decided to take him to one of the R and D floors which had been filled with way too many people, talking, humming of electricity, music, and every kind of noise a machine can make. Bruce was there, asking for some advice about his cancer research trials he said. He’d taken over and they left Bucky on R and D, and went to the floor the Avengers have their therapy on instead.

It’s also an admin floor, and Bruce somehow knows most of the people working there by name. They’d ended up sitting in an office with a young sounding woman who described every one of her five rescue cats in detail. It wasn’t that bad. Most of the noises around him were clacking keyboards. No music. Some harmless conversation about the nice weather, or family members. A little conversation from the floors above and below along the same lines.

Then re-framing thoughts and listening to an audio-book with Natasha. Therapy with Fiona. And now this.

This is terrible. Matt feels himself getting more and more on edge with every ‘don’t know.’ Foggy’s heart-rate increases too. Muscles tense. He’s getting as frustrated as Matt.

“Come on Matt.” Foggy’s feet pace behind the large couch Matt’s sitting on. “There must be something. How about when we start taking cases again properly. Surely you’re looking forward to that?”

What would that even look like? Would Matt talk? Or would Matt help prepare and Foggy does the talking? Would they sit in court together, or would Matt stay in the tower and wait for Foggy to call to say how it went? Would they even still be at the tower? “Don’t know.”

Skin against skin. Foggy rubs a hand across his face. “How about when we go back to our office? You love that office.”

Because it’s their office. His and Foggy’s. But how would that work? Everyone knows where it is. It wouldn’t be safe. “Don’t know.”

Foggy’s footsteps round the couch. Fabric against wood as he settles on the coffee table. “Matty work with me here. Four more things you’re looking forward to.”

When Fiona asked him to name five things he was looking forward to he’d eventually come up with getting his cast taken off. That’s it. She started by saying long term things, which she said meant longer than a week away. The cast doesn’t really count since it comes off next Wednesday, but she’d allowed it. After he’d still had difficulty, she’d turned the topic to defining his new goal since he’d achieved his previous one to go to Stacy’s counter, give her the list, and get the coffees and snack food.

Foggy’s not letting this go.

Matt shrugs his shoulders helplessly. “Don’t know.” He wishes he could think of something he’s looking forward to, but he can’t.

Small thump sound as Bucky closes the book he’s reading. It’s only them and Karen in the room. “Fog, you knew this could happen. Trouble picturing the future is common in PTSD. And with his depression thinking sunshine and roses ain’t gonna come easy.”

“Yeah I know.” Movement of hair. Foggy runs a hand through it. “I just - if he’s not looking forward to anything…”

“Hey, he signed his contract to life, right?” Fabric against leather as Bucky sits up on the small couch. “How long did you promise to stay alive Murdock?”

Matt holds up five fingers, then another two. Seven days. A week away is still the most he can think of without his mind getting muddled and panicked. He promises to not kill himself before next Friday, then he’ll sign another contract promising another seven days. He also promised to practice going to people when he has suicidal, depressed, or anxious thoughts he can’t handle within those seven days. There are other things he’s working on. His social anxiety. His triggers. His cognitive distortions. But asking for help is the most important.

“See. He’s got this.” Pride in Bucky’s voice.

“What do you do if you think you might break the contract Matt?” Foggy asks.

Matt rolls his eyes. “Use my safety plan. Tell someone. Ask for help.”

“And keep telling us what you’re feeling,” Foggy says. “We can’t help if you don’t tell us what’s going on in that noggin of yours.”

Matt smirks. “Right now I’m frustrated because you’ve been asking me the same question for twenty minutes.”

“So maybe I went a little overboard. A teeny tiny amount.” Movement. Foggy shrugs. “I’m shrugging casually as if to suggest it’s no big deal.”

“You also ate pickles for lunch, and I think it’s gross.”

Foggy snorts. “Now you’re being a smartass.”

“And you have gum on your shoe. Again, gross.”

“Hey I do n- oh wait I do. My bad.”

“And I know you ate Cheetos while I was gone. You know how I feel about Cheetos.”

“That was three days ago!” Astonishment in Foggy’s voice. “How do you even know that? No wait I don’t want to know.”

“It changes the odour of your sweat,” Matt says helpfully.

“Ugh. I was right. I didn’t want to know.” Disgust in Foggy’s voice. “That’s worse than the heartbeats.”

Matt gives him an innocent smile. “But you said you wanted to know what’s going on in my ‘noggin.’”

“You are a brat Matt.” Slight wet sound. Foggy does something with his tongue? “I’m sticking out my tongue at you. Matt the brat.”

Karen’s high heels click towards the large couch from the kitchen. Smell of cheese and cooked cauliflower. The cauliflower cheese is almost done. “Maybe we could plan something nice for next weekend, then Matt will get practice looking forward to something nice. Will that help?”

“It might.” Movement. Bucky shrugs. “Chances are he might have trouble thinking about it at first. Long as we drop the subject if he gets anxious then it might be worth a try. Any ideas?”

“How about a pool party?” Excitement in Karen’s voice. “We could just invite the people Matt’s spent time with.”

“And Candy,” Foggy says. “She’d love that.”

“What do you think Matt?” Bucky asks.

He’s not sure. Next weekend is just over a week away. Enough time that it feels odd to think about it. A world of things could go wrong between now and then. He shrugs. “Can we talk about something else?”

***

“What if something goes wrong?” Matt asks after his morning run with Bucky around the gym.

Bucky makes a questioning noise, his warmth moving higher. Doing shoulder ups on the chin up bar, with a long calisthenic movement at the top. “What do you think might go wrong?”

It’s hard to pin his vague fears into something specific. “Someone might recognise me.”

Tense muscles as Bucky holds his form at the top of the bar. “We’ll have the zoo to ourselves. Tony paid the staff to open a couple hours early just for us.”

Lucky nudges his side. Matt strokes him. “What if one of the staff recognises me?”

Bucky lowers himself slowly, keeping his arm muscles tense. “Then we can keep them away from you.” He drops to the floor. “You’ll have the headphones too if you really need them. But try to keep them off as much as possible. You hear someone in trouble tell us. How’s your trigger words going?”

“Good.” Both trigger phrases are in his book now. He’s moved from reading them to Jarvis saying them out loud in different voices. Female ones first. Then varying male ones. He doesn’t flinch at ‘swallow’ anymore no matter what voice says it. ‘Quit squirming’ is still a work in progress. “Laughter’s not going as well.”

“Could be wrong, but I think part of why you had such an extreme reaction when those kids laughed was because we were in a small diner. You were feeling more trapped. I mean, your first instinct was to get into an open area, right? Most of the zoo is open, so maybe that’ll go better. If not we have xanax.”

Matt’s hand finds the chin up bar. He goes for a simple pull up with his good arm. His shoulder blade’s doing much better. As long as he doesn’t do any stupid movements he can do all the pull ups and chin ups he wants without affecting it. “No one knows it’s us booking it?”

“Nope. Down as a birthday party under a fake name. Pepper made sure of it. There’ll be a few of Tony’s security scattered throughout, but the staff on while we’re there should be able to keep their mouths shut until after we leave.”

Matt pauses mid-pull up. “I’m being paranoid.”

“You’re talking about it so you can realise you’re being paranoid,” Bucky says. “If you kept this in your head it’d just grow until it explodes. That’s progress.”

“Yeah.” It’d be nice if progress wasn’t so difficult.

***

“What do you mean you don’t know what a penguin is?” Shock in Foggy’s voice. “I’ve failed as a friend! Why didn’t you tell me this Matt?”

Matt shrugs, wincing at Foggy’s volume. It’s not a big deal. Now he knows they’re penguins he can categorise them. Their fishy scent. Their odd body heat. Their waddling movements. He thinks he remembers what penguins used to look like. Not exactly. He hasn’t seen anything for long enough that any visual memories are vague and hazy.

It’s not something that’s come up before. He hasn’t been to a zoo since before he lost his eyesight.

“They look like tiny squat butlers in tuxedos. White stomach. Black everywhere else. A little dash of orangey yellow below their chin, and on the side of their head. Smooth black flippers at their sides, with a lighter colour on the underside. A long sharp looking beak with more orange on the bottom part. Black flippery feet. Oh, and they waddle when they walk. Like if you tried to do a shuffling walk without bending your knees. That help?”

Matt nods. It helps a lot. All Foggy’s descriptions do. There’s a clearer picture in his head now.

“We are going to have so much fun!” Clint says from his other side. “We’re going to introduce you to all the animals. I’ll help!”

Clint does help, but his descriptions have a lot of gaps. They’re pretty thorough for the birds of prey. Although he does forget to describe what they look like in favour of saying things like “and then whoosh, they swoop down and snatch up the field mouse before it knows what’s happening.” His description of the harbour seals falls to “it’s grey and cute, and has giant whiskers.”

Luckily Sam, Steve, Foggy, and Pepper are good at describing things. They take it in turns. Walking with him to the next exhibit, and describing what’s inside. The grizzly bears he recognises himself, although they’re a lot bigger than the black bear he scared Sam with back in Catskills.

Clint runs from exhibit to exhibit chattering away excitedly. Tony trails behind them, tapping away at something buzzing with electricity, or occasionally walks next to Pepper when she finds something she wants to share with him.

Pepper’s favourite animal is the red panda, but she thinks Natasha would like the snow leopard, so she takes some photos and a video of that to show her. Bucky likes the lemurs because of the funny dancing moves they make when they jump. Foggy insists he likes all of them, but has a soft spot for the penguins. Sam and Clint like the birds of prey best. While Steve says he likes the tropical birds because of how beautiful they are.

Matt decides he likes the lemurs best too. Maybe. He likes how agile they are, and how much they seem to love jumping everywhere, but he doesn’t like how they smell. They have scent glands on their wrists, Bucky says. That they rub all over their bushy tails. Matt’s smelt worse things, but it is a very strong musky scent.

They spend a long time with the reptiles because it’s fascinating to sense something so different from what he’s used to. Between the heat lamps and being cold blooded, he can’t sense their body heat at all. He can smell them, but that’s not useful for pinpointing a location. Sometimes if he listens very closely, he can make out a heartbeat over the humming of machines, but not always. The most reliable way of sensing them is the scrape of scales against undergrowth if they move.

They finish up at the petting zoo. It’s nice to get hands on with a creature and ‘see’ it for himself instead of having someone describe it for him. Even if some animals like the goats really stink. The sheep have a strange oil in their wool that sticks to his hand. Surprisingly the pot bellied pigs are the cleanest. They make funny grunting sounds that vibrate the air when Matt strokes them just right.

“Have fun?” Pepper asks as she helps him scrub his hand at one of the washing stations. He can’t get the sheep oil off himself only using one hand.

Matt nods, surprising himself. He’d picked up one comment about him throughout the whole trip. Not a bad one. Just someone saying “isn’t that Daredevil?” Maybe there were more comments, but he’d been so fixated on the others that he hadn’t noticed. There was laughter, but far away. Apparently his brain thinks that’s OK.

Not every trip goes badly. He should try to remember that.


	35. Chapter 35

Central park is quiet at six in the morning.

This is his new challenge. Moving his early morning run with Bucky to out here with Sam and Steve. They’re using one of Sam’s favourite trails which takes them around the reservoir and back to the car. Steve apparently prefers to run through the city, but they’ll stick to quieter places until Matt feels ready.

Sam complains with every step. Therapy day turned to movie night as it usually seems to do, and everyone was up late. Except Matt who apparently can sleep through most things, even with his super-hearing if he has an arm around him.

“Super soldiers!” Sam says, disgruntled, when Bucky and Steve pass them for the second time on the large circuit. His feet slap hard against the dirt path, keeping pace with Matt so the rope between them stays slack.

Once he learns the route he probably won’t need the rope anymore. The path is well maintained. Sam lets him stop to explore difficult areas. Like a group of paving slabs. He hates paving slabs. They only have to be a little uneven and it’s way too easy to catch his feet on them and go flying. And the slight differences in paving slab height is difficult for him to pick up, particularly when he’s going at high speeds.

It’s easier to brush his feet over them slowly, gauging their size, heights, whether any of them are loose. Then he can remember how far he needs to hop to the middle of the first slab. From there it’s easy to work out where to put his feet to stay in the middle of all the other slabs.

It’s a mixed bag. There are some things like slight variations in similar materials that he has to stop and memorise, when someone else could glance at it and navigate easily. Then there are other things he does better at, like being able to tell from the shifting sounds of metal against concrete that the handrail on the steps is loose.

There are other joggers out. Men, women, a few tiny heartbeats in strollers. That’s part of the challenge. There aren’t too many of them. Not this early on this path.

The wheels on one stroller stop moving. Silence. Is the woman staring?

“Matt,” Sam says between pants. “Remember what we said. You get anxious, we can go.”

Matt slows to a walk. Raises three fingers. His heart beats too fast, and not just from the run. Lucky pants heavily beside him.

Sam’s footsteps slow beside him. “You want to go?”

He’s not sure. They’ve run past half a dozen different people. Not a lot for the city, but enough to set his nerves on edge. Somewhere outside the park a door slams. He flinches.

“I think we should go back to the car,” Sam says slowly. “We managed twenty two minutes. That’s good. Next time we’ll try a different path. Downside of being an Avenger. Not wise to stick to the same route every day.”

They walk towards the car, Sam talking about how they should do some baking today if Matt wants to. He makes a few suggestions of things they might be able to make.

Every time they pass someone Matt flinches. It wasn’t as bad before. But with each moment that passes his nerves wind tighter and tighter, until his whole body feels taut and painful. Air enters and leaves his lungs in short gasps.

“It’s fine Matt,” Sam says soothingly. “Almost at the car. You’re fine. Just try to breathe.”

They pass a bench with women who smell of sweat. A tense moment of silence. Maybe someone told a joke? Maybe they recognised Matt? Then they burst into peals of laughter.

Dropping the rope, Matt runs.

He’s not sure how long he runs for. There’s blind panic. Hopping over objects. His feet finding solid concrete, brick and cement around him, and being able to ‘see’ the things around him clearer. Shrieking of tires. Running. Running. Nothing in his head but the desire to get where people can’t see him.

He catches his breath crouched in an alleyway that smells like pizza. Plastic by his side. Smell of stale food and garbage bags inside. A dumpster he thinks. The ground of the alleyway smells like cigarettes and greasy food. Not oily grime like the other alleyway, he reminds himself.

This is safe here away from prying eyes. He can catch his breath and figure out what happened. What did happen? He was in the park. Then panic, and now he’s somewhere. Is that right? Is that what happened?

Creak of a door opening. A heartbeat close enough to see him. Matt flinches.

“Hey man! You get away from that dumpster!” Anger in the voice. “You tear up those bags I swear I’ll track you down and make you re-bag all the crap that pours out!”

“Johnny, what the hell are you yelling about?” Another heartbeat at the doorway. Both male. Both sound somewhere about Matt’s age.

“Another homeless guy trying to get free pizza,” Johnny says, still sounding outraged.

“You idiot,” the second guy says. They both smell of cigarettes, but this one also smells of licorice. “He’s not homeless. What homeless guy wears jogging clothes? And - crap - it’s Daredevil.”

One side of the alleyway is a dead-end. The other is a street full of increasing numbers of people There’s no good place to go. He curls up miserably, still trying to get his breath under control.

“You mean the faggot who got himself raped?” Intrigue in Johnny’s voice.

Violent sound of flesh against flesh. The second man hits Johnny. From the sound he can deliver a punch. From the rocking sound as Johnny almost falls over, Johnny can also take one. Guys used to fighting. Either of them against Matt is going to be a challenge as scattered as he is. “Some asshole spiked my sister’s drink at a college party last year. You gonna tell me she got herself raped too?”

“Shit.” Pain in Johnny’s voice. Warmth on the side of his face. “Crap, no man. But he’s a guy. It’s different.”

“He’s also the guy who saved my grandpa’s life,” the second guy growls. “So you best get out of my face before you _get_ _yourself_ punched again.”

“You used to be cool,” Johnny grumbles as he disappears back through the door that smells like pizza.

Skin against stubble. The second man rubs his head. “Jesus man. Alright. Let’s get you back where you’re supposed to be.”

***

“Alright Matt,” Foggy says from beside the large couch. “Ready?”

Matt keeps the duvet over his head, even though it’s too hot with that and the weighted blanket. He doesn’t care.

The humming electricity of the device in Foggy’s hands disappears under the sound of a voice. Familiar. The reporter who almost killed Steve in New Delhi. “I’d like to offer my sincere apology on behalf of myself and my crew for the harm our actions caused Mr Rogers, Mr Barton, and Mohammed Shahid. I’d like to further apologise for the comments I made about Mr Murdock. I spoke in the heat of the moment and deeply regret the words I used.”

The reporter’s voice is flat. The words rehearsed. Matt can’t hear his heartbeat through the device, but it’s doubtful that he’s telling the truth.

“He was our last hold out,” Foggy says. Pride in his voice. “His crew apologised about two seconds after I mentioned the words law suit to their boss. They didn’t need much incentive, but apparently this guy thinks he’s some big shot. He came around once I let him know exactly what I’d do if he didn’t make a public televised apology.”

“Slander. Reckless endangerment,” Marci’s nasal tones say from one of the armchairs. “I don’t know why you didn’t bury him Foggy bear.”

“They were stupid, not malicious.” Sound of hair brushing against fabric. Foggy shakes his head. “And it didn’t hurt Matt’s campaign. Not once Pepper made the news station apologise and explain Matt’s actions to their viewers. Steve’s pretty much healed. They needed to know what they did was wrong, but they didn’t need their lives ruined over it.”

Marci sighs, the sound part admiration, part disbelief. “You’re sweet Foggy bear.”

“Well Matt?” Fake cheer in Foggy’s voice. “Did that cheer you up any?”

Matt doesn’t move from the position he’d taken when Bucky brought him up here two hours ago. Lying down against the back of the large couch. Weighted blanket comforting over his legs. The duvet covering the rest of him from the outside world. Lucky curled up by his side.

Wet in Foggy’s voice. “OK Matt. Me and Marci are working from the tower today, so we’ll be around if you want us. Hey Marce? Can you stay up here and talk to him a minute? I need to have a word with Steve.”

Shift in Marci’s breathing as her muscles tense. “Can’t the robot butler babysit?”

Stiffness in Foggy’s voice. “Jarvis can’t stop him if he tries to hurt himself.”

“And you think I can?” Marci’s too high pitched. It hurts his ears.

“Just don’t let him take his satchel under the covers with him. If anything else happens Jarvis will talk you through what to do.” Foggy’s footsteps walk towards the elevator. His movements are slow. Sad. “Don’t sweat it. Chances are nothing will change for a while. Talk to him. It seems to help him out of these episodes faster.”

The elevator doors whoosh open, then closed. Foggy’s heartbeat disappears.

Matt blinks, tired, but also not tired. The air’s too stuffy under the duvet, but he can’t bring himself to move. The world is big and terrifying. Full of too many triggers, and too many ways for him to screw up. He wants no part in it.

“Foggy’s so very lucky I’m fond of him,” Marci growls. “Alright Murdock. Let’s talk about the one thing you and me agree on.”

She talks about Foggy. He’s doing a lot of work. Preparing for Matt’s trial. Keeping an eye on what’s happening with the three men caught. Helping Jessica figure out how to find the three men yet to be caught. Helping Pepper, Clint, and Tony coordinate Matt’s public image. Filing slander and libel charges against every newspaper and news station that refuses to publicly apologise after spreading lies about Matt.

“You should hear the way he talks to those assholes on the phone,” she says, voice breathy. “And he calls me a shark. It’s enough to make a girl drool. Only he’s a lot less exciting when you have one of your ‘episodes.’ So whatever you need to do. Yoga, prayer, singing kumbaya. Do it. Have less of these things so I don’t have to deal with him moping all the time.”

***

Natasha flops down beside him, making the couch cushion jump. “Want to see what I brought you Murdock?”

Matt pulls the duvet tighter over his head. Near his stomach Lucky’s heartbeat perks up, interested by their visitor.

“Fine,” Natasha says eventually, voice still confident. Cardboard against wood as she sets something down on the coffee table. A box? Something soft sounding inside it. “Suit yourself. Want to hear about the visit I just had with the guard who conveniently forgot to tell you about the video?”

No. He doesn’t want to know anything about that. It’s one more thing out there in the world that fills him with dread.

Another long pause. “But I’m guessing you don’t want reminders right now?”

She can read him even when he’s a blanket lump. Creepy.

Fabric against leather as she shifts beside him on the couch, as if getting comfortable. “You’re enjoying that new book I introduced you to, right? Let’s listen to more of that. Jarvis. Could you?”

“It would be my pleasure Agent Romanov,” Jarvis’s voice says from the ceiling.

A moment later ‘Odd Thomas’ starts up where they left off. It’s about a short order cook who can see ghosts, sense things about their murders, and has other vague psychic powers including some ability to sense bad things about to happen. There’s an undercurrent of religion that Natasha says gets explored further in later books.

He also has a habit of walking into dangerous places with little to no plan. Although he does keep his girlfriend informed about what he’s doing. “See,” Natasha says after she reminds him this isn’t something he should copy. “He literally has a psychic power that helps him get out of these situations unscathed, and he still tells someone where he’s going. I hope you’re taking notes Murdock.”

Sure, should he be taking notes about the scary ghouls that seem to predict when someone’s about to die too? Despite himself he gets drawn into the book. It’s a lot darker than How to Train Your Dragon, which Natasha warned him about, but it does have a strong thread of humour running through it. And Odd Thomas is a nice guy who sees it as his duty to use his gifts to help those who need it.

There’s a strange moment where Odd breaks into a possible future murder’s house and physics gets bent, and sends him back in time a few seconds. Matt shuffles up on the couch, letting the duvet fall from his face.

“Yeah.” A smile in Natasha’s voice. “This is one of my favourite parts too. There’s more. It gets a little scary here, but don’t worry. Odd’s going to be fine.”

Matt pushes both blankets off, way too hot after hours under them. He takes both the bottle of water and the tangle toy offered by Natasha, and they continue listening. The tangle fuzzy is good to twist in his fingers when the story gets tense. The plastic joints mean he can bend it in a lot of different combinations. Natasha warns him when something scary is going to happen. Sometimes like before Odd finds body parts in a man’s fridge, she asks Jarvis to pause it so she can explain what’s going to happen and ask if he wants to continue. When two little girls are in danger, she asks if he wants her to tell him what happens to them so he doesn’t have to spend the book worrying about it.

It’s nice to be warned. If he’d read it on his own he would’ve stopped in the first few pages, where Odd finds justice for a young ghost girl who was raped and murdered. It didn’t go into huge detail, but it did mention it. They’d decided to have Jarvis miss some of the words so he didn’t risk getting triggered and kicked out of the book so early. And some parts he would’ve worried about too much on his own, scared there may be something triggering around the corner.

Natasha asks Jarvis to stop the book when Sam says lunch is ready.

Soft bounce sound as Natasha springs up onto the carpet. “Come on Matt. Let’s grab the best sandwiches before the super-soldiers get to them.”

Frowning Matt reaches for the duvet. Eating sounds like a terrible idea, even if he hasn’t eaten since last night.

“Matt,” Natasha says quickly. “Who do you think you’re hurting if you keep this up? I know you’ve heard how upset everyone gets when you refuse to eat. Come on. Come with me and try. You find the first few bites the hardest. After that it usually gets easier.”

The thought of eating makes his stomach turn over.

“Please?”

He drops the duvet. Pushes himself off the couch onto shaky feet.

***

He’s been resting over five hours. He still feels exhausted.

Bucky sits to his left, teasing Steve. Matt catches snatches of it. Apparently Steve tried to get back into his usual fitness routine today, and is now hobbling everywhere like an old man as a result. Natasha joins in the ribbing from Matt’s other side, asking Steve with mock concern if he needs his sandwich liquefied to save his dentures.

“Matt?” Sam asks quietly from the other side of the table. “You need anything?”

Matt stops - what is he doing? He’s tearing apart his sandwich. Not the controlled tearing he sometimes does. This is angry. He can feel several pieces in his lap. There’s butter and the watery remains of cucumber all over his hand.

“Remember how you’re working on asking if you want something Matt?” Bucky asks from his side.

What does he want? Something’s wrong. Everything’s wrong. There’s something screaming inside his head. It’s been screaming for a while. He just hadn’t noticed it before. Taking a deep breath, he tries to get the thick swampy thoughts to make sense.

What he wants is to bring that scream into the world. To break something. To break everything.

Shaking his head, he pushes his plate toward Bucky.

Confusion in Bucky’s voice. “Matt. You need to eat pal.”

That’s not what this is about. He mimes throwing something. The movements are jagged. Angry.

“You think you’re going to break the plate,” Natasha interprets.

Matt collapses back against the chair. Nods.

“Thanks for telling us Matt,” Steve says in that calm voice of his. “That’s useful for us to know. Can you tell us what number you’re on?”

Tapping his head against the back of the chair, he raises four fingers. A warm weight appears on his knee. Lucky’s chin. When he offers the dog his hand, a wet tongue laps at the buttery mess on his fingers. Gross.

Sam’s feet walk around the table. The heat of his body crouches down by Lucky. “Let me wipe of some of this mess? Then you can choose an intervention.”

He doesn’t want to choose anything, but he gives Sam his hand anyway. Smell of the unscented wipes. Sam’s gentle but thorough. He doesn’t grip. Foggy’s good at getting the mess off when he does this, but when he’s in a rush, he has a habit of attacking and scrubbing. Bucky tends to be too gentle, so cautious about not gripping or hurting that he misses bits.

Sam’s good, but Matt’s still glad when it’s over. Sound of another wipe against wood as Steve and Bucky clean up the pieces of sandwich over the table.

“Now get your sheet,” Sam says, calmly and gently once his hand is clean. “Let us know how we can help you.”

It takes a few attempts to pull the intervention sheet out of the satchel hanging on his chair. All his limbs are sluggish and uncooperative. He agreed to try and communicate when he’s feeling bad, and ask for help. It’s difficult, but that’s why it’s a challenge.

The thoughts take a while to form into action. He should say what’s wrong. His hand finds the emotions at the bottom of the depressed side of the sheet. Tears off ‘angry,’ ‘sad,’ and ‘want to die.’

No judgement in Sam’s voice. “OK. Remember what you’re supposed to say to yourself when this happens?”

His fingers find the short safety plan printed at the top of the page. He’s supposed to tell someone and choose an intervention. He’s also supposed to repeat to himself ‘These feelings will pass.’ And ‘These are horrible thoughts, but they’re just thoughts, I don’t need to act on them.’

“Good job,” the pride in Sam’s voice sounds real. “Remember what to do next?”

Choose an intervention, or talk through what he’s feeling more by giving more information like cognitive distortions. His fingers hover between ‘good person talk’ and ‘feelings talk.’ Making a face, he finger-spells ‘talk.’

Steve’s voice. Soft. “What do you want to talk about?”

He doesn’t really want to talk, but there are thoughts biting at his brain. Telling him how useless he acted, spooking so easily. And he’s trying to re-frame them, but it would be so much easier if he was sure about one thing. Flipping over the sheet he finds the cognitive distortions and his common negative thinking patterns. There’s one that says ‘Is Foggy mad?’ That’s close, but not quite what he wants.

Instead he gestures around the room, points at the ‘angry’ card, then points at himself. Brushes his socked feet back and forth over the wooden floor nervously as he waits for an answer.

Natasha understands first. “You think everyone’s angry at you.”

Matt shrugs a shoulder. He’s not sure.

“Matt.” Steve makes a pained noise. “We’re not angry at you. Can’t you tell?”

Another shrug. He can tell angry. Angry is tense, and static electricity, and everything horrible. But there are degrees of anger. Furious anger he always recognises and hates. Frustration he can hear if they speak, and sometimes through their breathing or muscle tension. But the quieter types of anger are less easy to tell. Resentment, or disapproval, or disgust. Sometimes he misses them until they build up and the person explodes.

He really doesn’t want anyone to explode at him. Yes, Bucky says he’s his friend, but Matt’s still the new guy here. No one signed up for this. What if he keeps making stupid mistakes for so long that they kick him out? He doesn’t think that will happen. They’ve put up with a lot to just turn around and kick him out. But he didn’t think the orphanage would refuse to let him visit for holidays after he aged out either. He didn’t think that Stick would up and leave so suddenly. He didn’t think that his Dad would die and he’d have to leave the only home he’d known until that point.

“Matt pal.” Bucky sounds as pained as Steve. “I’m not mad. No one’s mad at you.”

“They’re right,” Natasha says. “We’re not angry at you. You were triggered. It’s happened before. It’ll happen again. We’re worried about the potential dangers your reaction could’ve caused, but we’re not angry.”

Potential dangers? Matt makes a confused face in her direction.

“I’m not angry either.” Sam’s footsteps walk back to his chair on the other side of the table from Matt. “I would like to discuss ways to keep you safe if something similar happens in the future. But we don’t have to talk about that now if you don’t want to.”

Dangers? Keep him safe? He doesn’t understand.

“Matt?” Slight change in Natasha’s heart-rate. “Do you understand that what happened this morning was dangerous?”

Matt slowly shakes his head. He freaked out and ran off. It was stupid - although he should try to stop using negative labels like that - but he doesn’t understand why they’d be worried about his safety.

“You ran across several roads,” Steve says, and although his voice is soft, his heart is too fast. Bucky’s heart is too. “One car almost hit you that we know of. You don’t show good awareness of your surroundings when you’re panicked.”

It’d happened before. He kind of remembers. Steve tackling him out of the way of a car after they’d shown the video in court. The too fast heartbeats and notes in everyone’s voice is worry, not any type of anger. It’s weird to think of them being worried about him because of something he did instead of angry. Whenever he’d hurt himself at the orphanage the nuns were sometimes worried, but they were always angry as well, because Matt getting hurt could get them in trouble.

No one’s said he’s stupid for trying to communicate his feelings before, so maybe they can help him figure this out. His fingers find the cards with his common negative thinking patterns. Tears off ‘I think I’m bad,’ and ‘I think it’s my fault.’

“For running off?” Natasha asks.

Matt nods.

“Remember what I told you Matt,” Steve says softly. “It can only be your fault if you make a conscious decision for bad reasons, and you knew the full consequences of that decision. Was it a conscious decision to run off?”

Matt shakes his head. He panicked. Steve says that doesn’t count. The panic leapt suddenly and he smelt the oily ground of the alleyway while he ran, which means he was probably having some kind of flashback at the time as well.

“So was it your fault?”

Another shake. It feels odd, like it always does when Steve walks him to this conclusion. But Steve always makes it sound so logical, even when his emotions tell him it can’t be true.

“Doing something bad means you need to make a conscious decision to take an action with the intention of hurting someone-” Bucky starts.

“Who doesn’t deserve it,” Natasha adds.

Movement. Bucky nods his head. “Who doesn’t deserve it, and carry through that action of your own free will. You do that today pal?”

Hesitating, Matt nods. Makes the name sign Clint gave to Foggy.

Slight increase in Steve’s and Bucky’s heart-rate. Sam’s and Natasha’s stays steady.

Shifting as Sam leans forward on the kitchen table. “Matt, what do you think you did to hurt Foggy?”

Matt points at himself, then points at the ‘sad’ card on the table.

Natasha hums as if considering it. “Did you choose to be sad in order to hurt Foggy?”

A shake.

“Then did you do something bad to Foggy?” Bucky prompts.

Blinking, Matt shakes his head, but it still doesn’t make sense. He makes a sign Clint taught him. One of the few he only needs one hand for. ‘I don’t understand.’

“I know,” Natasha says. “This is something you have a lot of difficulty with. We can go over it again later if you like. Clint helped me come up with some new anecdotes that might help.”

They’ve been working on this concept for a while. That his choices can only be bad ones if he makes them with the intention of hurting someone who doesn’t deserve it. And it can’t be a bad choice if it’s not a choice at all. It’s strange not to be blamed for every screw up.

“And even if you did do something bad,” Steve says. “And you learn from it, and try to never do it again, does that one bad act make you a bad person?”

Matt shakes his head, feeling Natasha tense beside him, like she always does whenever someone reminds him of the difference between a bad act and a bad person. He gets the feeling it’s something she’s still working on.

“What number are you on now Matt?” Sam asks.

Matt raises three fingers. Knowing they’re not mad at him helps.

“Feel up to helping us figure out how to try to stop this happening again?” Scrape of ceramic. Sam pushes away his plate. “We’re not mad at you, but we are worried about you running off. None of us want you getting hurt.”

Matt traces his fingers across the wooden table, looking for dents in the finish. Nods.

Wood against wood as Sam scrapes his chair closer to the table. “Bucky says when he’s guiding you and you get spooked, you tend to move closer to him instead of running off.”

Matt flushes, remembering all the times he’s cowered into Bucky or hid behind him.

A smile in Natasha’s voice. “No need to get embarrassed Murdock. Moving closer is the reaction we’re looking for. Beats you running into roads when you’re more blind than usual. Like Sam said, none of us want you getting hurt.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Sam says. “But I think the reason you reacted so strongly was because you were very anxious at that point. It didn’t take much to push you over the edge. I was concentrating on getting you back to the car as quickly as possible, but maybe there’s something I could’ve done to help. Would it help when you’re anxious during a run if I guided you instead of walked beside you?”

Matt shrugs. Maybe. Feeling heartbeats of people he trusts does help him stay grounded. Sam’s heartbeat might help.

“What about if Bucky ran with you instead of me?” Sam asks. “Would you have run away then?”

Another shrug. He doesn’t know. He does tend to go toward Bucky when he’s scared, but not always. It’s hard to predict how he’s going to react when he’s panicked.

“We can try it.” A smile appears in Sam’s voice. “Besides, from what I saw when you ran like that, you’ve been holding out on me. Bucky might have to slow down to start with to help you get used to a path, but after that, not so much.”

“He’s fast.” Pride in Bucky’s voice. “I still beat him on endurance, but I think a lot of that is the skin and bones look he’s trying to pull off.”

“You should use some parkour routes once the cast comes off,” Natasha says. “That would help even the odds.”

“We’ll also try a shorter time tomorrow morning,” Sam says. “Fifteen minutes. We’ll work our way up. If you feel anxious before that, tell Bucky and you can go back to the car. Keep communicating with us Matt. Keep telling us what you like and don’t like. If there’s a route you hate, tell us and we won’t do it again. If you need to stop in the middle of a run to talk, or have a hug, or take a xanax, that’s fine. If it helps, that’s fine.”

Matt gets the feeling Sam added that last sentence after he noticed Matt flinch after mentioning the word ‘hug.’ Yes hugs help, but he’s still self-conscious about his need for physical contact.

“Hey.” Hesitation in Bucky’s voice. “Want a hug now?”

Matt wages a war with the Stick in his head before nodding. Scraping of Bucky’s chair along the floor. Then a warm arm loops over his shoulders. Bucky’s heartbeat beats through him. All the tension melts away.

“How about some of your soup?” Bucky asks. “Have that, a weight gain shake, and supper tonight, and you won’t have to worry about having an extra shake forced on you.”

Sighing, Matt nods.

***

That afternoon, Matt comes back from his session with Fiona feeling better.

They’re still on a session every day instead of every two days, and will be until after the trial, and after Matt stops thinking so seriously about suicide. She refuses to tell him any more about the video until he starts to share with her some of his memories about what happened. That way she can gauge what he’s ready for.

There are still a lot of things to cover. They’d talked about what happened today and it’s clearer in Matt’s head. They’d also talked about his suicidal feelings. She’d helped him spot that he’d had moments of thinking like this before, but the feelings always drifted away. They’d gone over his good things list and discussed what would happen if he died.

She’d asked him to imagine how he’d feel if Foggy killed himself. And that had been horrible. But Matt dutifully used the small computer to type out that it would be as bad as when his Dad died, because Matt loves Foggy just as much as he loved his Dad. He’d blame himself, asking if there was something he should’ve done, or something he should’ve avoided doing. His world would be turned upside down. He’d think it was his fault.

Then he’d had to imagine if the same thing happened to Bucky, or Steve, or Clint, or any of his other friends. That was terrible too. Then Fiona had turned around and told him that they all care about him just as much as he cares about them, and asked him to imagine how they’d feel if he died.

Bucky and Foggy told him they’d feel terrible if he died, but he hadn’t understood that before. It’s easier for his mind to assume they’d be relieved if he was gone. He’s a lot of work. Even after their long break from each other Foggy still seems to have difficulty spending a long time with him without sounding upset.

But if Fiona’s right and they feel anything close to how bad Matt would feel if they died, then he’s not sure he could ever do that to them. Is Fiona right? If Foggy died life wouldn’t be worth living anymore. But Foggy’s more put together than he is. He has a family. Lots of friends outside of Matt. He’d mourn at first, but he’d eventually move on, right? Is that right, or is Fiona right?

It’s a lot to think about.

Sound of crying as he steps off the elevator to the communal floor. No smell of salt. Fake theatrical crying. Clint’s voice. Matt sets his cane against the wall beside the elevator. Walks over to the kitchen table where the noise comes from.

“There there,” Sam says unsympathetically. “I’m sure they’ll still taste good.”

Matt finds the back of the chair next to Clint. Sits down. Lucky huffs as he lies down by his legs. Smell of chocolate from the table. They smell fine. What’s so wrong with them that Clint’s acting like the world just ended? He raises an eyebrow in question.

“It’s horrible Matt,” Clint cries dramatically. “Terrible. The worst thing that could ever happen. I saved some chocolates in the vents so there’d be some left when I came back, and now they’re all melted and weird shapes!”

Matt shakes his head, giving Clint an odd look. Reaching into his satchel he takes out the small computer. ‘Buried alive.’ Tilts the screen so both men can see it.

Sam makes a muffled laugh that transforms into a cough.

“You don’t understand! How am I supposed to tell which one is which? What if I accidentally pick blueberry? I hate blueberry.” Thump sound. Clint’s head hits the table?

Matt finds Clint’s shoulder and pats it. The man may be kind of weird, but for some reason this is important to him. Reaching into his satchel he pulls out Petrie and Little Foot and places them in front of the heat that seems to be Clint’s head on the table. Then he climbs higher on the chair, folding his legs under him so he can reach the box of chocolates better. Starts moving them into small piles on the table according to what kind they smell like.

Long moment of silence before Clint speaks. “Which one is coffee?”

Matt points at the pile closest to Clint. He’d noticed at the chocolate tasting that was his favourite. Then resumes sorting the misshapen chocolates into piles.

“I love you,” Clint mumbles around what must be a mouthful of coffee chocolate.

Rolling his eyes, Matt quickly sorts the rest of the chocolates.

“Therapy go well Matt?” Sam asks. A hopeful note in his voice.

Matt nods. There’s a lot of thoughts in his head, and he has homework which is never fun, but he’s feeling better about this morning. He’d also talked to Fiona about Father Lantom and his suggestion to do something nice for Foggy. Yes, Foggy said the only thing he wants is for Matt to keep trying to get better, but Matt still wants to do something for him. Fiona thought it was a good idea. His fingers hesitate before slowly spelling out ‘bake.’

“Sure,” Sam says. “Any ideas about what you want to make?”

Matt nods.

***

Bruce talks about his research as they cook supper. Matt doesn’t understand much of it, except that Tony named every one of the lab mice Necropsy. Still, it’s a nicer conversation than the one Natasha, Foggy, Sam, Steve, Bucky, and Tony have on the kitchen table about how close Jessica is to finding some of the last three. Clint helps cook the meat. Marci stays unusually quiet on the kitchen table, not joining in the conversation.

Jessica found the bar they were at before the rape, thanks to Matt’s spotty information about their last meals, and a painful series of questions to narrow down what cheap beer he thought it could’ve been. She’s close. Closer than Natasha seems to be to finding out who helped Wright.

“The guard is scared,” Natasha says. “Wouldn’t say a word.”

Surprise in Foggy’s voice. “The Black Widow couldn’t get anything out of a squishy brained civilian?”

“I said he wouldn’t say a word.” A smile in her voice. “Not that I didn’t get anything out of him. Marci was right. He didn’t decide to make things difficult for Matt on his own. Someone influenced him.”

“I’m guessing specifics were up to him though. This feels too sloppy to be well planned.” Grimness in Steve’s voice.

Movement. Sam nods his head? “I’m with Cap. He had some vague idea to make Matt’s life difficult. Catch it on camera if he can. Then gets told to pass on a note to Matt about the video and sees an opportunity.”

“But why?” Skin against metal. Tony fiddles with something. “What’s the motive?”

“His brother,” Natasha says.

“Dirty cop,” Marci adds. “One of the many who lost their jobs over the Fisk thing.”

“This one stayed out of jail.” A growl to Foggy’s voice. “He should count himself lucky instead of taking it out on Matt.”

Noise of hair moving. Natasha shakes her head. “For him that’s not all this is. Whoever influenced him has a lot of power. I can’t be sure if it’s physical power or political. I’m still working on it. He’s edgy, and I didn’t want to tip him off and whoever he’s working for. One things for definite. He showed no recognition to the names ‘Wright’ or ‘Olivia Asher .’ If these incidences are linked, there are other players involved.”

“How did you fit that into the conversation without raising suspicion?” Marci asks curiously.

“I have my ways.”

Matt finishes mashing the root veg. Hunching his shoulders he brings the first bowl of mash to the table along with some heat proof mats. He still doesn’t like these conversations, but he’s learning to tolerate being in the room while people have them.

Silence for a beat before Natasha breaks it. "Let's choose a more appropriate dinner conversation."

"Oooo." Plastic against wood as Clint takes the heat proof mats from Matt and spreads them across the table, setting down a bowl smelling like honeyed pork. "If you had to be an animal, which would you be?"

"Pft." Tony takes the bowl of mash. Ceramic against plastic as he sets it on a mat. "That's easy. A robot, then I could upgrade myself."

"Excuse me?" Foggy gets up from the table, along with Sam, Bucky, and Steve. Following Matt to the kitchen area to grab the rest of the food. "Do billionaires skip the grades where we learn about the difference between living and non living things?"

"They should." Shifting of metal as Tony picks out some cutlery from the pile Bruce drops on the table. "It's a travesty to put limits on the mind so early."

Whoosh of the elevator doors. Pepper's heels click out. Humming electricity in her hands. "Sorry I'm late. Budget meeting with R and D ran over, much like their budget."

Scraping of wood. Bruce pulls out a chair for Pepper, then sits in the one beside it. "If I had to be any animal I'd decide to be a human. Or a cat, but I think I'd miss science too much."

Running water as Pepper washes her hands. Matt places the last bowl of mash on the table, then retreats to a chair between Foggy and Bucky. Scraping of ceramic, metal, and chairs as everyone serves themselves and each other.

"OK," Sam says, sounding amused. "For the many science nerds here, let's rephrase the question. If you could be any non-human animal, what would you be?"

"Elephant," Pepper says as she takes a seat between Bruce and Clint. "Intelligent. Strong. Social. And they live for a long time."

"Wait," Tony says as clinking of metal against ceramic says he serves his food. "Does this mean I should start telling you your butt looks big in things?"

"Steve hit him." Calm in Pepper's voice.

A small slap of flesh against flesh. No more than a tap. Tony still complains loudly.

"Monkey," Clint says. "No wait. A hawk. No. Is there a monkey that can fly, because that'd be really cool."

"Some kind of large cat," Natasha says, sounding like she's thinking hard about it. "I'd need to do more research to know exactly which kind."

"Anything big enough for me to drag Steve's ass away from trouble." Ceramic scraping. Bucky drags serving bowls that smell like meat and mash close to Matt. "Mash on the right. Meat on the left. Serving spoons in both of them. Choose how much you want pal."

"If you don't take enough I'll pile more on your plate Matt." Warning tone in Foggy's voice. "And I'd be a dolphin I think. They look like they have a lot of fun. Unless all my friends are stuck on land, in which case that would suck."

Matt scoops out what he hopes is enough mash to make Foggy happy. He's not sure what animal he would choose to be. Something able to keep his friends safe. As long as he's with the people he cares about, and able to protect them, nothing else matters.

***

Matt fiddles with the box Natasha got him while he waits for Steve to finish his food.

It's a small cardboard box filled half way up with lots of little fluffy pom balls. They range in size. They're unbelievably soft. And sometimes his hand finds a treasure hidden in the layers of soft. A scrap of velvet. A silk ribbon.

He likes to bury his hand in the layers of soft, then raise it slowly so he can feel the fluffy pom balls rolling over his skin. Sometimes even that nice sensation becomes too much, so he takes out a couple of poms and brushes a thumb over their surface instead.

"Sure you want me to be the one to give Foggy his present?" Sam asks, not for the first time.

Matt nods, keeping his attention focused on the box in his lap. With Sam's help the recipe he'd looked up went perfectly. It smelled better than Matt had hoped, and Sam says it looks good as well.

He doesn't want to ruin it by dropping it at the last minute.

Foggy breaks off his conversation with Marci mid-word. "Wait. Matt? Present?"

Matt doesn't raise his attention from the box. Rubbing his knuckles lightly over the soft contents. It's only a cheesecake. He doesn't want to make a big deal of it and raise Foggy's hopes. He doesn't want to raise his own hopes that Foggy will like it, only for them to come crashing down when Matt hears disappointment in his voice.

Super-senses has downsides.

His muscles tense as Sam's footsteps move to the fridge. Sound of it opening. Then those footsteps come back to the table. Shifting ceramic as room is made for the cheesecake in front of Foggy. "Matt wanted to do something nice for you. He said Fiona helped him pick which one to make."

"It's green." Surprise in Foggy's voice.

Clinking of ceramic. Sam puts bowls down? "It's avocado."

A choked sound. Upset again? "Buddy, it's perfect. Thank you Matt." Foggy's voice doesn't sound upset. He sounds happy.

"There's a story in there somewhere," Tony says with suspicion. "Little Miss Spider, mind read these two and figure out what they're hiding about avocados."

Creak of wood. Natasha leans back in her chair. "Most people just ask, Stark."

"Where's the fun in that?"

A click from over by Clint.

"Tumblr?" Foggy asks.

"Tumblr." Movement. A nod from Clint.

If Stick ever gets someone to describe Matt's media campaign to him, the majority of it will be pictures of him with dogs, or making some kind of food. Not that he'd be interested in checking up on Matt after what happened to him.

"Matt." A hand with Foggy's heartbeat lands on his shoulder. "What's with the sad face? This is a happy moment. You made an avocado cheesecake and it's amazing. And now you get to listen to me stumble over complicated math as I try to figure out how to cut it into enough pieces."

"I got it." Movement. Tony stands up. "Maths is my thing."

"Want to talk about it?" Foggy's hand squeezes his shoulder.

Matt shakes his head. No. He doesn't want to talk about all the stuff floating through his head.

"Try to be happy. Please buddy. Please try."

He's already trying. He's already trying really hard.


	36. Chapter 36

Monday morning people come to test his senses.

Foggy said this would happen. Their defence relies on persuading a jury that Matt's heightened senses means he hears people at a distance screaming for help at a volume any reasonable person would react to. He can sense fear and anger, and reacts to these in the same way someone who could see those expressions on someone's face would react.

The reports could also help add credibility to his descriptions of his attackers.

He still hates it.

Kate taught him not every stranger should be ignored. That getting to know some people can be worth the minefield of triggers they could contain.

This stranger he ignores. The bubbly audiologist tries every ice breaking technique from remarking on how comfy his clothes look, to talking about the weather, to complimenting Lucky. It's not until he sets Steve between him and her that she gets the message that he's not going to acknowledge her in any way, and there's no way he's going to shake her hand.

It doesn't help matters that Bucky retreated to his room shortly after their jog this morning. Steve says he's nervous about his hearing this Friday, and the interview this Wednesday. Sam's spending time with him, while Steve spends time with Matt on a lab level Tony modified to be able to undertake the tests they need.

"Sorry," Foggy apologises for him. "He's having a hard time with strangers lately."

"Look." Marci sounds annoyed. "Are we going to stand out here all day, or can we get on with things?"

For a moment Matt forgives Marci for her horrible taste in perfume.

They sit him in a tiny room off from the long hallway that echoed sound-waves like glass. Thick headphones over his ears. A spinning desk chair that's a nice distraction. Such a nice distraction that he pushes himself around slowly instead of acting like he's listening to the bubbly woman's instructions over the intercom.

"Mr Murdock, do you understand?"

The bulky headphones are wireless. He can spin all the way around without getting tangled in wires. It's neat. Particularly since he had to leave Lucky, his satchel, and the contents of his pockets outside. All he has is the PECS book.

The buzzing static sound of the intercom turns off. The woman sounds confused. "Does he understand?"

"Well I don't know." Tony sounds amused. "Murdock, do you understand?"

"He won't be able to hear-"

Matt gives the wall that makes the sound-waves veer off at odd angles a thumbs up. Foggy said it's a one way mirror.

No one in the tiny room behind the mirror sounds surprised except the woman. Steve, Tony, Foggy, and even Marci sound amused. "I tested this room myself. His hearing would have to be extraordinary to hear us."

"There is a reason we're doing these tests," Foggy reminds her.

The tests are boring. Raise his hand when he hears a tone. She tries to find the quietest volume he can hear, then moves onto frequency. Every now and then she pauses to sort out the next test.

Foggy and Tony fill the space with jokes. Tony seems to take delight in whispering knock knock jokes. Enthusiasm builds in his voice every time Matt signs 'who' at the mirror.

They test him on everything from being able to recognise which recorded scream is genuine fear, to quiet sentences he has to repeat back using his PECS cards.

By the time they're done, Matt has to duck behind the nearest person to remind her to ask her endless spiel of questions at a distance. Tony doesn't seem to mind. Maybe he doesn't even notice as caught up in his own take on some of the questions.

There's talk about adapted brain structure. Stimming. And many variations on 'why hasn't he gone crazy by now?'

"By these calculation he should be able to hear a heartbeat twenty feet away." The bubbly woman's feet pace the hallway.

That sounds about right. He still doesn't know why she thinks it's the perfect subject for such a long conversation though. The testing took hours. He wants to get away from this stranger and the metallic smelling floor with its strange glass covered rooms.

Foggy stands on his right with Marci. Steve to his left. Tony somehow always staying between Matt and the woman, even when she tries to direct a question at Matt himself.

Buzzing sound of Foggy’s phone. Fabric against plastic as he pulls it out of a pocket. “Crap.”

That’s not a reassuring sound. Matt stops gauging the distance to the elevator to tilt his head questioningly.

“You’re going to need to pop one of your happy pills Murdock,” Marci says. “You’ve got another line-up.”

***

“Matty.” It doesn’t sound like it’s the first time Foggy’s said his name.

Engine of the limo vibrating through him. Hot blazes through his body, followed by a wave of cold. The air in his lungs feels thinner than it should. It takes several minutes for his numb lips to fumble out a word. “Fog.” It chokes. “Fog.”

“Yeah buddy, I’m here.” A hand with Foggy’s heartbeat rubs his arm. “You’re fine. Positive ID. You did good. We’re in the limo on the way back to the tower. Me, Marci, and Steve here. Lucky’s got another dose of xanax if you need it. I’m starting to think that one dose doesn’t cut it when we’re doing line-ups.”

A positive ID. He remembers walking into the station with Foggy, Marci, and Steve. Remembers hearing that voice saying ‘ _fucking bitch.’_ Remembers smelling old spice and phantom pain shooting through his body, making it impossible to breathe. He doesn’t remember indicating that it was the fourth man who spoke. Doesn’t remember walking back to the limo.

His mouth opens and closes. He wants to ask Foggy what happened. Wants to stroke Lucky when the dog licks his fingers. But his mind is a haze of confusion. His body won’t move.

***

He still can’t move when the everyone in the tower starts gathering on the communal floor for supper.

Natasha’s quiet footsteps exit the elevator in front of Steve’s heavy ones. She clears her throat authoritatively. A smile in her voice. “I’d like to make an official announcement.” A dramatic pause. “Steve is not cleared for active duty.”

Steve’s footsteps limp as they make their way to the table. “You’re enjoying this way too much. I ban you from one mission. One, for a good reason.”

The cushions shift as Clint leans over the back of the large couch. Plastic shifting as the dinosaurs he’d been messing around with fall over. “She’s not dropping this for a while. Best to just take your medicine Cap.”

“Yeah.” Heavy sound as Steve flops into the kitchen chair. He hisses between his teeth. “You get the go ahead from Fiona?”

“She says it’s worth a try, as long as I try my hardest not to trigger him.” The tap stops running. Then Foggy’s footsteps make their way from the kitchen area to the couch. “We discussed using another benzo that’s injectable, but xanax is the only one he’s consented to use. We decided to try and stick to that one for now if we can.”

Tony harrumphs from the kitchen table. “I still say you should let a robot do it. Or at least borrow a reinforced glove.”

“He could be right.” Pepper’s close enough to feel the warmth of her body. Sitting beside Clint on the large couch. “Matt would never forgive himself if he hurt you.”

“If I use a glove he won’t know it’s me.” The cushion beneath Matt jumps as Foggy collapses onto it. And that’s terrible because it makes Matt move. He’s not supposed to move. He can’t move right now. They’ll notice. “I want to try it this way first. I really don’t want to scare him.”

Natasha’s footsteps move to the side of the couch Clint sits on. “He’s already scared. Be careful.”

“Matty.” A hand with Foggy’s heartbeat on his cheek. “Let’s try this one more time just to be sure. I need you to take this pill, alright? It’s just xanax.”

Foggy’s other hand pries Matt’s fingers away from where they’re clutching his legs, and no. He’s not supposed to move. He needs to stay still. He _needs_ to. A frightened whimper escapes his throat. He can’t squash the urge to curl up tighter, knees pressed to his chest in the corner of the couch. That’s more moving, and he needs to stay still. He needs to stay quiet. He tries not to breathe. It doesn’t work.

Foggy lets go of his hand. Wet in his voice. “OK Matty. OK. We’re not doing that. It’s just me, Foggy.” Foggy’s other hand is warm against his cheek. “You’re safe. You’re in the communal lounge, in Avengers tower. I’m going to put a syringe in your mouth. It has liquid xanax mixed with juice in it. So please don’t bite my fingers off. I need those. Here we go buddy.”

Fingers by his mouth. He tenses before he recognises Foggy’s heartbeat. Plastic pushes past his lips, cold liquid in his inner cheek. A moment when he’s torn between staying still and reacting, then the plastic is gone. A thumb brushes at his cheekbone. Bitter taste in his mouth. Tastes chemical.

“There Matty. You could - you know I know we’re supposed to start using that word again, but I don’t think now’s the right time to do that. Yeah bud. I know it tastes terrible. You look like you took a giant bite out of a raw lemon right now. It’ll help whatever this is though. Twice the dose you usually take. I promise you’ll feel better soon. Think you can drink some water to get the taste out?”

Very little water makes it past his lips. His body stays rigid, curled up in the same position he’s been in for hours. Every now and then he smells the oily grime of alleyway. Feels large hands grip his hips tight enough to bruise. He needs to stay still. If he moves they’ll start hurting him again. Panic prickles at his nerves, needle sharp.

“Jarvis.” Cloth smelling like Foggy wipes his chin. “Tell me when thirty minutes is up.”

“Certainly Mr Nelson.”

“You’re fine bud.” Foggy’s body heat is so close he’d only need to lean forward a little to rest against warm chest. Those soft arms would wrap around him, and he’d be safe. But he can’t move. “I don’t know what this is, but it’s going to be over soon. I’ve got you, and you’re safe. Just try to take a deep breath.”

He can’t. He needs to breathe slowly and shallowly. Silently. Bring no attention to himself. If he shifts so much as a muscle they’ll see. Someone’s always watching, even when he thinks they’re distracted. And he can’t tell what will make them react. Will the line be drawn at crawling away? Or will shifting a screaming muscle be too much? Or will he breathe too loud?

What mistake will he make this time to bring their focus back to him?

Smell of food around him. Some kind of stir-fry. Rice. Vegetables. Beef. Soy sauce. Sam’s and Bucky’s footsteps walk off the elevator. More rough in Bucky’s voice than usual. Conversation about the interview on Wednesday. The whole team is going as well as Bucky.

By the time Bucky’s footsteps walk over to the couch, Matt’s feeling a little more relaxed. His muscles start to loosen from their locked tight position they’ve held for the past however many hours. They ache. His breath comes easier without bright panic. His hand reaches toward Foggy. Slowly. So slowly. He can finally hear the part of his brain telling him they’re not here, but the prickling imagined gazes are still sharp on the back of his neck. His fingers wrap around the edge of Foggy’s jacket.

“Yeah Matty. I’m here.” A lot of wet in Foggy’s voice. Matt’s always making him upset.

There’s no energy to think about that. Staying so perfectly still leaves every muscle burning. He’s tired. He’s always so tired. Just as slowly as he moved his hand, he leans his head against Foggy’s shoulder and rests.

***

“Yeah, like that,” Clint says on Wednesday after he shows him the new exercises he needs to use for his forearm.

It’s strange to have the cast and sling off. His arm hovers close to his chest, not sure what to do. It feels so much lighter.

“We are going to have so much fun!” Flesh against wood. Clint bounces beside the kitchen table. “There are sooo many signs I can teach you. That way we can talk when you get in one of your funks and don’t want to use your computer.”

Matt shifts from where he sits on top of the kitchen table. He’s had a few funks over the past couple of days, though none as bad as after the line-up. Foggy, Bucky, and Fiona had asked what when through his head to make him curl up and not be able to move, but he hasn’t answered them. It’s too personal. Too much like ripping himself apart.

Foggy’s starting to get annoyed about him refusing to talk about the flashbacks and memories. Matt can tell. Foggy thinks talking about them will help his problems at night. The night terrors still happen. So do the nightmares. Lately he’s been sleepwalking more, sleep-talking too.. Mostly he walks to the kitchen table, then refuses to move because he’s waiting for someone. Either his Dad or Foggy.

“Hurry up Buck,” Steve says from by the elevator. “We gotta go.”

“Hold your horses punk.” Fabric rustling as Bucky puts what smells like fruit in a bag. “You know if I don’t pack enough for you to eat you’ll end up chowing down on the nearest pastries. Then come the sugar crashes. Super soldier sized sugar crashes. You want that?” His heart beats fast with nerves. He may be trying to hide it, but he’s not looking forward to the interview.

“No Mom.” Sarcasm in Steve’s voice. “I don’t want a sugar crash. But we really do need to go.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” Bucky’s uneven footsteps walk around the table. “See ya brat.” Then continue towards Steve’s heartbeat.

“Bye Matt!” Wide movement. Clint waving as he walks towards the elevator. “Bye Karen and other neat people!”

Matt waves goodbye. Whoosh as the elevator door closes.

“Other neat people.” Movement. Foggy shakes his head from where he sits on one of the kitchen chairs. “I can’t believe we didn’t get our own farewell. We should sue.”

“Lawyers.” Creaking of wood as Claire leans back in her chair. “That’s your answer to everything.”

“And what would a nurses answer be? Threaten them with needles?”

“I usually just remind them that when they get hauled into my ER, I’ll be the one holding their insides together until a doctor gets the time to see them.”

“Simple yet effective,” Karen praises. “I don’t even have to threaten anyone anymore. Jessica does all my threats for me. She’s so good at it, all she needs to do is look in someone’s direction and they feel threatened. It’s like being friends with a T Rex who occasionally lets me braid her hair.”

“Avengers should be back from the interview this afternoon,” Foggy says. “What’s on the agenda until then?”

“We should - um - we should.” Matt swings a leg over the edge of the kitchen table. Talking’s still not easy. He can talk to Claire, Foggy, Karen, Jarvis, Bucky, Steve, and Father Lantom. But his fluency varies massively. Sometimes he’s fluent. Sometimes he starts, stops, and stutters. And sometimes the words don’t come at all, even to someone he knows he should be able to talk to. “We should make Bucky happy.”

“I’m in.” A smile in Karen’s voice. “Any idea how?”

“Yeah.” Matt nods. “Yeah.”

***

“And blueberry muffins for Steve,” Matt decides. He sits cross legged on the kitchen counter, stirring the bowl in his lap. It smells of chocolate. “Are the lumps gone?”

Neat slam as Karen closes the fridge door next to him. Smell of blueberries in her hands. “Let me see. Yeah, that looks great. You’re ready for the chocolate chips.”

“Then Matt crawled onto my bed. Woke me up, and scared me shitless. Said in this serious voice ‘Can I sleep here? The monsters are in my room?’ So I’m like ‘Sure dude, knock yourself out.’ It took thirty seconds and the most confusing conversation about dragons, grappling hooks, and chocolate, before I realised he’s sleep walking.” This is the nice story about his new nocturnal activities. There’s only one nice story, and the rest sound terrible. So Foggy’s taken to spreading this one around. Matt doesn’t mind. Foggy’d asked first this time, and he takes care not to detail what goes on the other nights.

“Dragons is an excellent topic.” Karen tugs open the cupboard under his feet to get another bowl. “I approve of subconscious Matt.”

“Yeah.” Scrape of wood against ceramic as Foggy mixes the contents of his and Claire’s chocolate cookie mix. “He was kind of incoherent. So I’m not totally sure what he was saying about dragons, but they were definitely mentioned a lot. Most of it sounded positive, except for one sentence I got where he was wondering if they’d eat all the chocolate.”

“I’d worry about that too.” Ceramic against marble as Karen sets the mixing bowl on the breakfast bar opposite Matt. “Hey, what other ingredients do we need for the blueberry muffins?”

“Flour, caster sugar, butter, two eggs - we might want to double that, baking powder, blueberries, nutmeg,” Claire sounds like she’s reading it from somewhere. Probably the electrical humming thing near her. “Oh, and don’t forget to sprinkle some flour on the side for Matt to mess around with.”

Matt ducks his head, concentrating on stirring in the chocolate chips. He didn’t think they’d noticed that.

“Matt.” Loud sound of metal against metal as Foggy removes a baking tray from one of the cupboards. “Anything that makes you happy, and doesn’t end in you hurt is good in my book. Now, we need to pour the mix so it looks vaguely cookie shaped and doesn’t you know, become some giant cookie mess someone’s going to claim looks like Jesus. How good are super-senses for that?”

Matt makes a face. Not that good. “If you tell me how much mix and where to pour it a couple of times, I can guess from there.”

Karen’s heels tap their way back to the breakfast bar. Smell of flour in her hands. “You could help with the muffins instead? You’re really good at making the mix. I still don’t know how you manage to crack eggs one handed and not get a bowl full of egg shell.”

Matt slides off the counter, placing the chocolate cookie mix by Foggy. “It helps when you can feel where they’re going to break.”

“That’s really-” sound of object through air. Quick taps of Karen’s heels backwards, then crash of ceramic against the floor. The mixing bowl Karen got out for the muffins. Skittering sounds of the pieces of ceramic over the kitchen area. Wide movement as Karen overbalances. Matt goes to steady her, but Claire gets there first. Everyone’s heart beats too fast.

Claire recovers fastest. “Everyone without shoes out of the kitchen area. Everyone with shoes is on clean up.”

“Sorry.” Karen’s heels stand upright on the floor again. They skid ceramic in front of them as she moves to the cupboard under the sink where the dustpan and brush is kept.

“Whoa Lucky,” Foggy says quickly, moving out of the kitchen area. “Back up, Matty’s coming. Don’t get your paws diced up in the line of duty.”

Matt makes to follow Foggy, and stops. His fluffy sock brushes a large piece of ceramic. It’s probably sharp. Crouching down he prods it. Yes, sharp.

Warmth crouched in front of him. Claire’s hands around his own. A worried edge to her voice. “It’s fine Matt. Me and Karen will clean this up. Give me this, and I’ll guide you over to Foggy.”

Loosening his hand, he lets her take the piece of ceramic. He hadn’t noticed picking it up. Movement. Claire passes the ceramic to Karen. Then her hands are back on Matt. One hand in each of his. Together they walk towards Foggy’s rapid heartbeat, her kicking ceramic out of the way, and telling him where to place his feet.

Foggy’s hands fall on his shoulders at the same time Claire lets him go. Lucky sniffs his legs as if he hadn’t seen him in ages. “Matt, what were you thinking? Why did you pick it up?”

He was thinking that the trial starts on Monday. Five days from now. He was thinking that there are still two more of them to find, and he’ll have to go to their line-ups too. That the first three were indicted at Grand Jury and turned down a plea in order to go to trial. That Old Spice will probably do the same when it’s his turn. That in order to make his case stronger he’ll have to speak at each of their trials, and he’s not sure he can do that and still breathe. That last night marked six weeks since it happened, and he thought he’d be better adjusted by now.

That even if they do go to jail it’ll never be over because the video’s still out there.

Shaking his head, he takes a deep breath. Tries to clear the fears from his head. “I wouldn’t have killed myself.”

Foggy’s fingers dig into his shoulders. The heartbeat through those fingers skyrockets. “Because you don’t want to, or because we’re here to stop you?”

That’s not fair. Anger flares up bright and hot. “What do you want me to say Foggy? I’m trying here.”

The hands leave his shoulders. Movement of hair as Foggy runs a hand through his. “I want you to say you’re not going to kill yourself.”

His hands curl into fists. He forces them to relax. “I promised you that, didn’t I?”

“Then you went and took a knife to do just that.” Foggy’s words are cold, but emotion trembles under their surface. “Then you try to take a shard of broken ceramic. Christ Matt, are you just waiting for the right opportunity to off yourself? Is that what this is?”

Something inside him snaps. It’s almost a relief. “The roof in Catskills was perfect. Getting up there would be difficult with one arm, but a well angled dive onto the concrete path would’ve ended things. And there were trees. So many trees. I climbed them every day. You know I can sense where every part of my body is? I can position myself perfectly. Even a short fall can be fatal if you get the angle just right. I can tell by feel where to tap an egg against the side of a bowl to break it. You realise how easy it would be to apply that math to my skull and the marble counter? They say that anything can be turned into a weapon, but I can take that to a whole new level. I know which blows would turn that chair into a pile of splintered pieces. From there it’d be child’s play to make a knife sharp enough to stab every one of my arteries, because I can feel exactly where each of them is.” He takes several deep breathes. “So maybe I get tempted when such an easy way out falls into my lap, but I _am_ trying. If I wasn’t I’d be dead already, and that’s not what I want. I don’t want to die. Sometimes things are too much, and I want them to stop. But if Fiona, you, Bucky, and everyone are right, then things will get better. If I want to see that, I need to stick around. Right?”

No answer. Wet breathing. Smell of salt behind him. Sounds like Karen is crying. Her and Claire are close. Soothing sounds from Claire. Comforting Karen.

Matt shifts uncomfortably. Walks around Foggy towards the elevator.

Choked breath as Foggy recovers. “Matt.”

Matt skirts around his reaching arm. “I’m anxious,” he says before the elevator doors close. “I need to hit.”

***

“You had another panic attack this morning at the park,” Fiona says. Fabric against fabric as she folds one leg over the other in the armchair she’s sitting on. “Do you know what triggered it?”

The office floor the Avengers use for therapy is quiet as usual compared to the other floors. Matt shifts on the fabric couch. Pulls Lucky more securely onto his lap. The pressure helps. They’d finished making the cookies and muffins and had a tense lunch. He nods his head.

“Are you going to tell me what it was?”

A shake.

Fiona hums consideringly. Fabric against fabric as she switches the positions of her legs. “We’ve had a few of these lately. You not wanting to share what a trigger was, or what was going on in your mind during an incident. Would you feel better about sharing if you had a private trigger list as well as a public one?”

He shrugs. Strokes Lucky.

“Anything on your private trigger list stays between me and you. That way I’ll know if a trigger is becoming a problem, and we can decide what to do about it.”

That could be OK. Although this one is stupid. The others could guess, but that doesn’t mean he wants to tell them. He settles the small computer on Lucky’s side. The dog makes a good table. ‘Someone was giving a man oral sex. He was making noises. Saying things too.’

“Were there any particular words that triggered you?” Scratching of pen against paper as Fiona writes something down. Her heartbeat stays steady. Not surprised.

Yes, but Matt can’t bring himself to type them all. Maybe one. Maybe he can manage one. ‘Slut.’ His hand trembles. Lucky turns to lick his fingers.

“You’ve made great progress Matt.” No lie in Fiona’s heart. “Not long ago you wouldn’t be able to think about a memory like that, let alone tell me about it. Let’s take some deep breaths, then when you’re ready I’d like you to tell me what happened that night. Anything you can. Remember, it doesn’t have to be in order.”

They do this every session now. Matt has to type out what he can from that night. Mostly it’s all the same. The woman screaming. The punches. The cat. The blow to the head. Kicking. Not being able to get up, and how that made him feel. Them taking off the suit. He always stops talking before the rape. Always. Fiona doesn’t mind. There are plenty of feelings for him to analyse about those first several minutes. That’s almost worse than saying what happened next. She does remind him every session that when he’s ready to say more it’ll help.

Today he adds that they’d told him it was his fault. That they only did it because he helped the girl get away, and crossed them.

“Do you regret helping her escape?” Fiona asks. “It’s OK if you do.”

Matt shakes his head. ‘She didn’t deserve that.’

“Neither did you.” Plastic against paper. Fiona taps her pen against her clipboard. “You know, if that wasn’t their excuse they’d use something else. The way you looked. What you were wearing. How you looked or didn’t look at them. Something you said or didn’t say. Just that you were there. No one wants to be the bad guy. So they’ll twist everything in their head in order go on thinking you were the one at fault and not them. The best way we can fight them is by not letting them twist everything in your head and making you believe it’s your fault. Face it like your cognitive biases. Break it down and look at it logically. It was their choice to rape you. So whose fault is it?”

‘Theirs,’ he types. ‘But I could have done more.’

“I know you think that.” Nothing but that calm confident emotion in Fiona’s voice. “But even if you’d done nothing to defend yourself it still wouldn’t be your fault. Some people don’t fight back. Some people freeze or dissociate the moment they’re attacked. Do you think it’s their fault?”

It’s a lot to think about. Matt shakes his head.

“Why not?” Fiona prompts.

‘They didn’t make the choice to be raped,’ Matt types. ‘Their attackers did that. It’s their attacker’s fault.’

***

“They showed pictures,” Clint says sounding enthusiastic. “Playing tug of war with Lucky. That one with Bucky glaring at the ceiling when you beat him at a pancake war Matt. Oh, that selfy we took covered in mud. You and Nat playing tag. When you went on that hike and Bucky gave you a piggyback ride and you fell asleep. You doing that neat one handed handstand. Me teaching you sign. You chilling with Steve when he was all covered in plaster and couldn’t move. So many pictures.”

Matt moves past him, careful not to drop the tray. Part of him’s terrified he’ll mess this up, but if he does it’s not the end of the world. There’s more soup and more cookies. He can try again.

Bucky’s heartbeat thuds slow on the couch. Tired. Natasha’s heartbeat beside him.

“Bucky talked a lot.” Steve sounds proud. “Of course it was his favourite subject aside from technology and My Little Pony.”

“My Little what now?” Claire asks.

Sitting on the coffee table, Matt offers Bucky the tray.

“Thanks pal.” A lot of rough in Bucky’s voice. The tray lifts from Matt’s hands. “Chocolate cookies and soup?” His heart jumps. “Miso soup from the place downstairs. Jesus Matt. I mentioned once that I liked it. Did you remember that?”

Matt nods. Of course he remembers.

A rough chuckle. It’s nice to hear it. “Matt you’re something else. The cookies look great too. Thank you.”

“Me and Brucie need to eat and run. Thanks for the soup.” Tony’s fast footsteps head towards the elevator, followed by Bruce’s shuffling pair.

Humour in Natasha’s voice. “How come Bucky gets kitchen to couch service and I don’t?”

“Here Matty.” There’s still some tenseness in Foggy’s voice as he hands Matt a mug. It’s a lot easier for him to drink soup from a mug than a bowl, particularly when he doesn’t have a table to use. “What are we watching?”

“Wait,” Karen says. “I’m not finished asking questions. What was Ellen like up close? Is she as friendly as she seems? Do you think the interview did what we wanted it to?”

Pepper set up the interview for two reasons. One was to show a side to Bucky very different from the Winter Soldier before his hearing on Friday. The other was to show the human side of Matt, beyond the mask or what happened to him. So they’d organised an interview that revolved around asking the Avengers questions about Matt, sprinkling in a few references about what a big help Bucky was at the beginning, and plenty of mentions of both their efforts in New Delhi.

“I think it went well.” Sam’s footsteps walk over to the couch. Ceramic against skin as he passes Natasha a bowl of miso soup. “It’s a delicate balance between revealing enough to make them realise Buck’s essentially taken on a caregiver role, while preserving what parts of Matt’s privacy we can.”

Matt settles in the corner of his couch, blowing on the mug of soup to cool it. They’d talked to him about this before. They’re going to use Bucky’s work with him to help out at the hearing. That and Bucky’s degree and volunteering at the animal shelter. The interview was an opportunity to remind everyone that Bucky Barnes isn’t just the guy brainwashed to be an assassin. He’s also a war hero. A student at Columbia hoping to one day build technology to help people. The guy who volunteers at an animal shelter when he gets the time. A friend. The first one to earn the trust of a guy with severe PTSD who wasn’t sure about trusting anyone.

“Ellen did seem nice.” The couch moves as Steve sits beside Natasha. Smell of soup in his hands. “She stayed friendly even with the cameras off. Wanted you to know that if you needed to do an interview to set things straight in the media, she’d move mountains to give you any accommodations you might need. I thought that was decent of her.”

Natasha sounds relaxed. “Even Bruce doesn’t mind going to see her, and he hates getting interviewed.”

Hum as the television clicks on. Familiar gentle background noise. A voice he recognises from the last time they’d watched this show.

“Are those ponies?” Claire asks from one of the armchairs.

Foggy finally takes a seat between Bucky and Matt. “Be careful what you say. Sam and Bucky are major fans.”

“Steve says it’s my choice.” Still too much rough in Bucky’s voice. A note of something desperate too. Matt understands suddenly. The show is Bucky’s soft blankets and hugs. Something to calm and soothe him. “I’m starting from where Matt got to last time.”

“It’s surprisingly good,” Steve says, although Matt can tell he doesn’t have the enthusiasm for the show Sam and Bucky have. “The plots are well thought through, and the art is nice.”

“I like the pink pony,” Clint adds from between Sam’s and Karen’s heartbeats on the small couch.

Natasha’s heartbeat is slow and calm between Steve and Bucky. “It’s a gentle world. Nothing like this one.”

One episode in Claire makes a confused noise around a blueberry muffin. “Cartoon ponies are singing and dancing. Why don’t I hate this?”

“I know.” Awe in Karen’s voice. “It’s mesmerising. Matt, why didn’t you show me this before?”

Matt shrugs, sitting back to enjoy the show. He might not be as into it as Bucky, but he gets the appeal of wrapping himself in a nice gentle world for a while, and pretending that’s all that exists.

***

“Whatever these guys are up to,” Jessica says when she storms into the gym with Pepper on Thursday morning. “It’s clear they don’t want us to find the rest of the assholes. So I say we give them exactly what they don’t want.”

Matt tilts his head from where he’s sitting cross legged on the day bed, doing bicep curls to try and build up the strength in his right arm. Apprehension pools in his stomach. He doesn’t like the sound of this.

Shuffling as Karen ducks out of the ring where she’d been doing a good job learning how to disarm Clint. She’s a fast learner. “Jess, what are you doing here?”

Movement. Jessica makes a gesture? “Potts told me about the latest threat.”

Foggy’s footsteps walk over from where he’s been boxing with Bucky. Bucky’s uneven footsteps follow. “I haven’t had time to break that to him yet.”

“Matt,” Pepper’s voice is gentle. “You know I told you we sometimes receive threats directed at you?”

Matt puts down the weight to twine his fingers together. It feels strange to be able to do that again. Nods.

The day bed shifts as she sits on the end of it. “This morning I got a call that your old apartment was broken into. They left a letter telling you to recant your statement and stop us digging into the case.” She takes a deep breath. “A dead dog was in the room. I phoned around and it seems the rescue centre Bucky volunteers at was broken into. The dog was one of theirs.”

Behind him Bucky’s heart skyrockets. He hadn’t know either. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No one but the dog,” Pepper says. “If they’re still only directing messages at the tower, Matt’s old apartment, and your old office, then they don’t know about Karen or anyone’s movements. But I’m worried this means they’re escalating.”

A dog is dead because of him. No. The others would say that’s personalisation. Taking responsibility for things that aren’t his fault. Still, a dog. His ears fix on Lucky’s sleepy heartbeat by his feet. His stomach turns over.

“So Jones wants to step things up?” Foggy stops next to Bucky. Forced humour in his voice. “Let me guess, it involves throwing someone through a window?”

A smirk in Jessica’s voice. “Actually this one is Potts idea.”

“So.” Tapping of plastic. Pepper does something to the humming electrical thing in her hands. “Here’s what I propose we do.”

***

“Matt can you try breathing with me.” The couch dips as Karen sits beside him. Both her hands wrap around one of his. He flinches before relaxing. “Sorry. Breathe nice and slow. It’s fine if you can’t answer right now.”

Jessica sighs from her spot sitting in the middle of the coffee table. “Blondie…”

“No.” That steel appears in Karen’s voice. “If he’s not ready to do this, then we are not going to push him. My friend’s well-being is more important than any case, even this one. So shut up, sit down, and give him a minute.”

Jessica grumbles, but stops asking her questions.

Lucky clambers half way onto Matt’s lap, nudging at him until he remembers to stroke the dog’s head. Karen rubs circles with his hand sandwiched between her own, like she did all those weeks ago after he broke the plates. Both her and Lucky help.

What damage did he do to the first guy’s thumb?

They need exact details. Something they can release to the social media so all those people claiming to be part of the savedaredevil movement can help them find someone with those injuries in the days following the rape. It has to be precise. Too vague and they could start a witch hunt for anyone with a thumb injury. The wrong details and the discrepancy could be picked up in court and all his descriptions could be questioned.

The memories around biting the guy’s thumb off are blurred. A haze of panic. Pain in his jaw. Shouting. Pain everywhere else. Bright fear painted over all of it. Wild and desperate anger.

He’s told Jessica things before, but this is too personal. He can’t tell her this. But maybe…

Lucky pants happily under his hand. The dog’s insistence fades as Matt’s breathing slows down. Matt pats his lap, and Lucky wastes no time before scrambling the rest of the way onto the couch and resting on Matt’s legs.

He can’t tell Jessica, but maybe he can tell Lucky.

Adjusting the small computer, he concentrates on Lucky’s steady breathing. Lucky wouldn’t judge him. Tugging his other hand gently from Karen’s grip, he starts to type, pretending only the dog is in the room. The illusion isn’t strong enough to speak the words. Typing might be possible.

‘Tasted blood. Teeth scraped against bone. Spat out something. Think flesh and muscle. A lot of it.’

“K.” Jessica’s voice sounds calm, but her heart doesn’t. Shifting on the table. Sitting cross legged? “So we’re looking for an asshole missing flesh from his thumb, not bone?”

He takes a deep breath. He’s not concentrating on Jessica. He’s concentrating on Lucky. ‘His right thumb. Think I took most of the flesh off the top joint to the bone. Maybe some of the nail too. It’s hard to tell.’

“Got it.” Jessica taps at the humming with electricity object in her hands. “Sending the descriptions to Pepper now. Still think it’s more likely we’ll hear something about the thumb guy, but might as well put up both descriptions.”

“Knowing you, she’ll have to edit out all the swearing first.” Karen sits close enough to his side that he can feel every one of her muscles tense and relax when she shifts. She sounds disturbingly human compared to the denser echoes that come from Jessica.

‘What if they get mad?’ He types, showing her the screen.

“You don’t need to worry about that.” The steady beat of her heart sounds like a promise. “None of us are going to let them hurt you.”

But who’s going to stop them hurting her?

***

“The bartender knew Old Spice by name,” Matt explains to Lucky later, sprawled over one of the ramps in the Nerf gun room. There’s a lot to take in. A lot of information clogging up his brain and breeding anxiety. Maybe if he says it out loud it’ll start making sense. “Because he looks distinctive.” Tall, wide, a lot of muscle. It makes sense. “He sounded distinctive.” He remembers crooned words and praises, like Matt was a willing participant in what was being done to him.

Click of paws against wood as Lucky clambers part way onto the ramp. Rasp of the dog’s tongue against one of Matt’s fluffy socks. Sometimes animals are weird.

Silence for a while. He lies there. One arm on the ramp. The other hanging over the edge. “The bartender didn’t recognise the last two. The others won’t give them up. That’s why they didn’t accept the deal. Old Spice won’t either. He likes playing with people’s heads too much. He’d get a kick out of knowing something no one else does.”

Huffing sounds as Lucky climbs the ramp. Skidding as he slips down. Matt takes pity on him, hauling him to the top.

More silence. Longer this time. Matt fills it by playing with Lucky’s fluffy ears. Fiona says he should talk about what happened. Foggy thinks he should too. Telling another person is distasteful. He thinks Fiona wouldn’t react too much. Maybe Natasha wouldn’t either. But then he’d have to worry about what was going through their heads. What they think of him. Whether they’ll look at him differently.

Someday he might be ready to try that, but not today. Today he’ll practice what he can with Lucky. Lucky won’t judge him, even if he doesn’t manage to tell him anything.

“Seven hours is a long time.”

No reaction from Lucky except to lick his nose. Gross dog.

Matt takes a long break from talking to wrestle the dog onto his back before attacking Lucky’s belly with rubs. The dog pants happily, mouthing at Matt’s hands playfully. Matt sits back on his heels. “They left me alone to smoke or talk. They didn’t hold me down. I tried to get away the first couple times, but they didn’t let me. They said if I moved that meant I was bored, and that meant they needed to entertain me. Old Spice said if I really didn’t want it, then I wouldn’t have moved. And I tried. I really tried. Sometimes I’m not sure I really did move. Maybe he made it up. Or maybe I just breathed. But people need to breathe, right? I can’t stop that. That’s not my fault, is it?”

Several points of pain appear on his thighs. Lucky’s claws. It helps clear the panic from his mind. That wet tongue licks under his chin. It’s a good thing he’s taken to carrying around wet wipes in his satchel.

He strokes the insistent dog’s head. Talking like that leaves him feeling more drained than relieved, but that’s how he felt about feelings talks too at the beginning. Now feelings talks help, even though he still dislikes them. Maybe Fiona and Foggy are right, and this will help too. Gripping the dog’s head in both hands, he hopes Lucky understands this next bit as strongly as he hopes Lucky doesn’t understand anything he just said. “When we go outside the tower you need to stay close to me OK? I keep - I’m not good protection right now, but I don’t want-” he imagines what that dead dog smelt like in his apartment. Doggy oder turned heavy and cold. Before the sickly rot sets in, death smells like cold wet granite. Strong enough to taste it all over his tongue. If they’d spilt blood there’d be copper too, thick with bacteria if it’d been a few hours. His heart beats too fast. “I’m going to keep you safe.”


	37. Chapter 37

“No.” Swift movement as Foggy shakes his head. “I just shook my head at you in disbelief. There is no way your super-senses helped you find Waldo.”

Matt grins, turning the book Bucky informed him was ‘Where’s Waldo’ to the next page. Skims his fingers over one page, then the opposite one. Taps at a spot near the top right. Leans back so Foggy can see the book in Bucky’s hands.

“OK,” Bucky says with little of his usual enthusiasm. “You’ve got me curious pal. How’d you do it?”

They’re sitting on a row of uncomfortable chairs. Foggy, him, Bucky, Steve, Sam and Clint. All there for Bucky’s hearing. Between finishing up some tests of his abilities, and his physiotherapist Devan coming to check his progress, Matt had missed the hearing itself, but he can be here now to distract Bucky while they wait for the verdict.

Meeting with Devan again wasn’t as bad. His heart is still full of nerves, but he knows his stuff. He’d also switched cigarette brands which helps. Apparently he hadn’t liked the other brand either. One of his clients was caught with a few packs by their father, and the disapproving father had given them to Devan to get rid of them. “Never turn down a chance to save a few bucks,” Devan had said. He’d been understanding when Foggy said they wanted to hurry so they’d be able to support Bucky at his hearing. Devan’s not so bad.

Matt taps the spot on the page again, then strokes a finger over it. Gestures at Bucky to do the same.

Sound of skin against paper. Very slight surprised jump in Bucky’s heart-rate. “Some asshole circled all the Waldos in pencil.”

Matt nods. Someone else must’ve erased the marks if Bucky can’t see them, but that doesn’t stop them being able to feel them. Bucky’s heart stays high and anxious. His voice is rougher than it should be. Matt points at the small table Sam and Steve are doing a puzzle. Foggy said it’s of a fluffy kitten wearing a tutu. Raises his eyebrows in question.

“Nah.” Hair brushing against shirt collar as Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t really have the patience for a puzzle right now.”

Matt pulls the small computer out of his satchel, half listening to Foggy and Clint debate the merits of cheetos vs fritos. ‘When we get home you can eat cookies and watch ponies.’

“Yeah,” Bucky says, voice still too rough. His heart speeds up. “I mean, unless they decide I need to start a custody sentence right away. Then I guess you guys could visit whenever they allow that.”

“Buck.” Movement as Steve’s head jerks up from the puzzle. “That’s not going to happen. You haven’t committed a single crime since we got you back ten months ago.”

“You’ve had extensive therapy. They have proof of that. You’re still attending. You earned your GED. You volunteered for months at a animal rescue centre. You’re going to college to earn a degree. They literally can’t get any more evidence that you’re a different person from the Winter Soldier,” Sam says from low to the ground, on the other end of the small table.

“And you showed them that app you built, right?” Clint asks from the other side of Foggy. “That was really cool.”

It is cool. Bucky told them about it. He’d built a free app that talks you through a customisable safety plan when you’re feeling suicidal. Reminding you of the thoughts you need to use to replace negative thoughts. Encouraging you to call one of three personal contacts you can input into the plan, or a helpline, or 911. It could help a lot of people.

“They have scans that show the damage those wiping machines did to your brain,” Foggy says from beside Matt. “They have more scans that show the damage healing. They have extensive psychological reports that show the same pattern. You’ve got countless witnesses testifying that you are a caring person who could be a real aid to society. Your tutors. Fiona. Your therapist. The owner of the rescue centre. More character witnesses than I’ve ever seen. In my very professional lawyers opinion, if they give you any kind of custody sentence, they’re complete nincompoops.”

Matt nods in agreement, plugging the headphones in the small computer to scroll by sound. Bucky needs distraction. It’s time to up his game.

“You’re coming home with us Buck,” Sam says firmly. “If in some wildly implausible scenario that doesn’t happen, then we’ll fight it.”

“You’ve got a bigger fan-base than Tony.” Seriousness in Clint’s voice, like he’s sure he’s making an important point. Maybe he is. “Never underestimate the power of a horde of screaming fans.”

Matt leans against Bucky’s side. Offers the man one of the headphones. Hesitant fingers take it from his grasp. After giving Bucky a few seconds to put the ear-bud in place, Matt presses a button on the small computer. Music drifts from the ear-buds. Hopefully it’s loud enough. It’s hard to gauge what’s normal hearing sometimes.

A smile in Bucky’s voice. It’s good to hear it again. “It’s a song from My Little Pony.”

They’re all songs from My Little Pony. Jarvis helped him collect them. He figured Bucky would appreciate the songs more than an audio-book or an audio-descriptive soundtrack. Bucky likes music.

“Which one?” Sam asks as Matt digs in his satchel for something else.

“We’re the toughest little ponies in town,” Bucky sings. The smile stays in his voice. “Got the moves, got the mojo, no harder working ponies around.”

“Hearts strong as horses.” Sam hums thoughtfully. “That one might be my favourite. It’s that one or the ‘you’re never going to bring me down’ song.”

“Does that count? It’s from one of the movies, not the series.”

Clint giggles. “You two are such dorks.”

“You’re one to talk,” Bucky says, words vibrating over Matt’s head. “I’ve heard you singing Pinky’s smile song to yourself.”

Matt’s fingers finally close around what they’re looking for. A small paper bag he filled before they left. He hands it to Bucky.

“More stuff?” Crinkling of paper as Bucky investigates the contents of the bag. “Chocolates. Thanks pal. You didn’t need to do this, any of this. I mean, just being here is more than enough. I know what a big deal it is for you to go outside the tower.”

Matt shrugs. He’d debated whether to come. He’d wanted to help Bucky, but didn’t want to be a burden and make this stressful day worse. Then Clint offered to come with him and Foggy, so there’d be two people to cover Bucky, and two for Matt. If he can help, he wants to.

The noise isn’t too bad, and he has the sound-blocking headphones hanging from his neck in case. No triggering sounds yet. At least, none that hadn’t swept by fast in the car. He can hear the men and women discussing Bucky’s verdict, but they’re professional and polite. The people waiting outside the front of the building are the worst noise. Talking about Bucky or Matt or one of the Avengers. He tries to block them out.

He concentrates on the music instead, and the way listening to it makes Bucky’s heart slow down.

***

“I don’t believe it,” Bucky says for the third time. “Nothing. No punishment. Nothing.”

Fast movements from Clint. Foggy said he thinks it’s some kind of victory dance. He didn’t sound sure.

“Nothing,” Bucky says again.

Light sound of flesh against flesh as Steve pats his shoulder. “You said Buck.”

“They apologised for this whole proceeding dragging on so long.” Awe in Bucky’s voice. “Apologised.”

“Well you were a prisoner of war,” Foggy says. “And everyone was kind of an asshole about it.”

“They’re giving me back-pay.” Bucky doesn’t sound like he’s listening. “For the years Hydra had me.”

“Now you can definitely get those silk sheets you were talking about.” Steve’s footsteps sound heavier. Pushing Bucky towards a doorway. “Remember what to say when the reporters shove a camera in your face?”

Bucky’s footsteps are even more uneven than usual. “Jesus Christ.”

“Not quite.” Sam’s footsteps walk by their side. “Repeat after me Buck. No comment.”

“No comment,” Bucky says distantly.

“Attaboy.”

Steve, Sam, and Bucky go out the front. Matt, Foggy, and Clint go out the back. It’s not like Bucky will be able to avoid the cameras. He’s the reason they’re here. But if they use the same tactic Tony used to get Matt out of the police station all that time ago, they should be able to wait until everyone is distracted by Bucky and sneak out to the waiting car.

It goes well. Matt’s able to tell when the coast is clear, and they make it out to the car with the same level of success they had sneaking in. The car rumbles. Large but not a limo. Tony must’ve wanted to send something more stealthy this time. Everything is fine.

Until it isn’t.

A voice that stabs into his gut and twists. Raspy from too many years of cigarettes. “Told you I’d teach you a lesson bitch. Told you what would happen if you crossed me. Got a gun pointed right at your friends. Which one do you want me to shoot? From the pictures you all seem close. So which one is it going to be? One arm? Wings? Or Mr America?”

“Whoa Matt!” Foggy’s arms wrap around him.

He strains forward, not sure why it took this long to react. He’d frozen, listening to that voice that reminds him of tar in lungs and baseball bats. And Bucky, Steve, and Sam are out there with a gun trained on them. Why hadn’t he reacted sooner?

Foggy’s arms are surprisingly strong. They fix around him, vise tight. “Stop Matty. Calm down.”

Lucky clambers all over him. Clint’s warmth moves between him and the door. He manages to wrench past Foggy’s grip just as there’s a click of the door opening and louder sound from outside.

“Matt, hey.” Hands with Steve’s heartbeat on his shoulders, pushing him back into the large car. “Breathe. You’re fine.”

Click as the door closes. Bucky’s voice, worried. “He need his headphones?”

“Could be something the reporters said.” Flesh against leather as Sam sits in one of the many seats in the large car. “Hey, can we get out of here?”

The car pulls away, with everyone in it sounding fine. It doesn’t make sense.

Foggy’s hands tug him backwards until he falls onto leather. Click of a seat belt. “Deep breath buddy. Lucky’s got xanax if you need it.”

His ears pick the voice out of the crowd with ease. He doesn’t think he could block it out if he tried. “Get rid of the press release. Withdraw your statement. Stop digging. Or next time I pull the trigger.”

***

Matt’s feet pace back and forth from kitchen table to hammock. The small computer sits on the table ready, but every time his fingers touch the keys they can’t figure out what to say. This is too much. He can’t figure out how to break it down.

“Remember how you’re working on asking if you want something?” Steve asks from the kitchen table.

He remembers. He’s been working on that for a while. And he’s trying. He took the xanax, and that helped dull the panic, but this is still a lot. Part of him wants to keep them out of this. It’s his problem, not theirs. He’s putting them in danger.

And this is Bucky’s special day. Ponies and cookies. If he is going to tell them, then he should do it fast so Bucky can enjoy some of his day without being distracted by Matt. But the words are all mushed together in his head. He’s not sure how to pry them apart and piece together a coherent sentence that can explain how the world just exploded.

Tony makes a quizzical noise from opposite Steve on the kitchen table. “Am I like this when I freak out?”

“You talk more.” Precarious rocking sound. Clint balances his chair on two legs. “And you flail your arms a lot.”

“Matty.” Worry in Foggy’s heart. “Deep breath buddy. Tell us what’s going through that head of yours. You want to try talking to me or Bucky alone?”

The words aren’t there. He doesn’t think they’ll be there even if he tries communicating with those he can usually talk to. And he’s wasting everyone’s time. He should spit this out quick if he’s going to at all. He should do this. And no. That’s another cognitive distortion. Using too many ‘should’ and ‘ought’ to sentences isn’t healthy. Particularly when he uses them to beat himself up like this.

“Matt. Try something else.” Sam’s voice is as calm as it always is. “PECS, sign, and gestures are easiest for you.”

A good point. Though it’s always annoying when he has to take a backwards step like this. Tugging the PECS book out of the satchel, he hops up onto the back of the large couch. One hand flips through the pages, skimming over some of the cards to remind himself where he is in the book. The other hand flaps quickly at his side. Small movements. He still stops once he realises what he’s doing, scanning the heartbeats at the table for cues.

“No one here cares if you stim Matt.” Truth in Sam’s voice. “Most of my vets with PTSD stim at some point in their recovery. It’s a perfectly natural reaction to extreme stress.”

“Not to mention mountains of sensory input.” Tony’s tapping at something humming with electricity again. “Go for it kiddo. Regulate that sensory input.”

Relief floods through him at how casual they sound about it. He lets his hand resume its small sharp flapping movements. He needs it. His usual dose of xanax isn’t cutting it anymore. At least not for something like this. This is huge. So big that he’s not sure how to put it into words. Stimming helps him focus enough to find a card that might help. ‘Danger.’ He shows it to them.

“OK,” Steve says evenly. “Who’s in danger?”

Matt gestures at all of them.

“Us?” Clint sounds shocked.

A nod. There has to be some way he can explain to them what happened. He tears off a sentence strip. Fills it with ‘sound’ ‘enemy’ ‘car.’ Shows them that.

A long moment of silence. Steve’s the first to speak. Darkness in his voice. “Something about the men who attacked you.” It’s not surprising he’d get that part. Natasha may be the best at helping him re-frame negative thoughts. But Steve is the best at helping him straighten things out when everything’s a muddled pile of incoherent thoughts and emotions, with the possible exception of Foggy. Unlike talking with Foggy, Matt’s usually stuck using PECS and the small computer with Steve when he’s that mixed up. Enemy is the card they use to talk about _them_. Incoherent thoughts and emotions usually leads back to _them_.

Matt nods, then cups his ear as if listening for something. His heart beats too fast in his chest.

“You heard them,” Clint says suddenly.

“In the car.” Hardness to Bucky’s voice. “They were there.”

“Jarvis.” A hard note to Tony’s voice as well. “Get me up every news-feed and security camera in that area when Bucky walked out of the building. I want the face of everyone in that crowd.”

It’s unlikely to work. Baseball bat couldn’t be that stupid, could he? He knew Matt would be able to hear him. He didn’t warn him not to tell, so he had to know they’d look for footage.

“Matt, how many are we looking for?” Authority in Steve’s voice that usually only comes out when he’s running drills with the team.

Rubbing at his chest to try and calm his heart, Matt raises one finger.

“Which one?”

It’s strange to talk about _them_ in a group setting. Muscles tense, he makes a gesture like he’s swinging a baseball bat.

“Gotcha.” Gestures from Tony. Something he does with the humming things sometimes. Sam and Foggy say they’re holograms. “Jarvis narrow down by height. Keep a close eye for someone with a limp.”

Unless Matt did more lasting damage than he thought, it’ll be back to being a very slight limp by now. They might not pick it up. Besides, there’s more important things for them to be aware of. He makes another sentence ‘danger’ ‘weapon.’ Shows it to them.

“Weapon?” Clint asks.

Matt turns his hand into a crude representation of a gun. Points the two fingers that form the muzzle at Sam, Steve, and Bucky in turn.

Bucky’s voice is small and dark. “You heard the guy say he was gonna shoot us.”

Matt nods. His hand grips the PECS book too hard. It trembles.

Tony stops whatever he’s doing mid-movement. “Security would’ve noticed if someone brought a gun to that party, and we had all the rooftops and windows in range covered. This was high risk. We even used the new scanning system I developed.”

“And no one knew the extra security measures, so they couldn’t adapt to them.” Movement as Steve shakes his head. “But none of that could stop someone telling Matt they had a gun.”

Matt freezes. They didn’t have a gun? He’s not sure that makes it much better. Yes, extra security measures might’ve kept them from danger this time, maybe. But that’s not going to be the case all the time. They don’t take high tech scanning equipment with them every time they go outside the tower.

It’s still not safe.

“Matty? They try to make you withdraw your cooperation like last time?” Foggy asks. Wet in his voice. Upset. Some anger too.

Matt nods shakily. Makes the sign Clint taught him ‘stop’ then points at the group at the table.

“And to stop us,” Steve says. “Stop us looking for the last two?”

Another nod.

“Gotta be one of them behind all this.” Slam of wood against wood as Clint lowers all four chair legs to the floor. “Probably the baseball bat guy. It’s sounding like he’s the ringleader.”

“He’d have to have pretty big pull to be the guy behind the guard and everything else that’s gone wrong with this case,” Steve says.

“Or well connected,” Bucky adds. “Can get a surprising amount done when people owe you favours.”

“This is good, isn’t it?” Foggy asks. “If it’s the one guy behind it I mean. We lock him up, then he won’t have a reason to threaten Matt again.”

“That’s the idea.” Clint doesn’t sound very sure.

***

“Come on Matt. This is great news. Aren’t you happy?” Foggy sounds happy. It’s odd to hear so much emotion.

Matt shifts on the couch in the games room, where Foggy and Claire took him to tell him the news. The HIV test came back negative. He still needs a test three months after the rape, and another at six months, but this is good news. He tries to find some emotion. There’s nothing but the swampy heaviness he’s felt since deciding to tell them what happened. “Can I go back now?”

Foggy’s heart picks up speed. Fabric shifting as he crouches down in front of Matt. “Buddy? Talk to me. What are you feeling?”

“Nothing.”

Forced humour in Foggy’s voice. It clashes with the fast fear sound of his heartbeat. “Bud. You’re an expert at feelings talks now. I know you can do this.”

Everything is muted, and not in a nice way. It’s like every sound, smell, sensation is a part of a large oil painting, and someone’s come along and smeared the whole thing. It’s all muddy, jumbled, and somehow less than it was before. “I don’t feel anything. I feel nothing. Can I go now?”

Wet in Foggy’s voice. “You’ve got to feel something.”

Why? It’s easier this way. “Can I go now?”

“You’ve got to be enjoying watching that pony show with Bucky if you’re so desperate to get back to it?”

Bucky called him an idiot and asked him to watch it with him after Matt apologised for ruining Bucky’s special day. The man even waited to start until Matt was back from his appointment with Fiona. He thinks he felt something about that then, but not now. “It’s better than the real world.”

“OK. OK.” Deep breath like Foggy’s gathering himself for something. “Matt, are you thinking of killing yourself?”

He was not that long ago, but not now. He shakes his head.

“You’ll tell me if that changes?” Foggy’s heart is rabbit fast with fear.

His safety plan says he’s supposed to tell someone if he thinks he might act on his suicidal thoughts, or if his interventions don’t work. But he can do that if Foggy wants. “OK.” Even his words sound dull. “Can I go?”

“Yeah buddy.” A lot of wet in Foggy’s voice. He should feel something about that. “Go watch ponies.”

“I can’t stay long.” Claire walks next to him, down the corridor towards where Bucky is waiting. “But I’m up for watching some cartoon ponies before I have to go.”

Matt uses his cane, even though he shouldn’t need to in a place as familiar as this one. Lucky makes a high pitched yawn as he trots by his side.

Claire nudges his arm lightly. “The fashion pony was my favourite last time. Which one was yours?”

It takes a few seconds to remember. “Applejack.” He likes all of them, but hard working selfless Applejack is his favourite.

Foggy’s wet breathing stays in the games room. Maybe Matt will feel something about that later.

Air currents change as they enter the communal lounge. Claire makes a thoughtful noise. “If you had to be a unicorn, flying pony, or normal pony which would you choose?”

He’s on the couch next to Bucky before the question works its way through his brain. “Pegasi.”

“That’s the flying one.” Soft on his lap. Bucky tosses the fleece blanket at him.

Fabric against fabric as Claire settles in one of the armchairs. “Why?”

Matt’s hands fist around the soft blanket automatically. It might be his imagination, but the world feels less murky. “I could fly fast. I could help others.”

“Could also do neat tricks,” Bucky says. It’s hard to tell, but it feels like there’s some silent communication going on between Bucky and Claire.

Neat tricks would be cool.

***

Matt finds Steve in the gym.

Faster breathing and heart-rate than usual. Over by the parallel bars in the gymnastics section of the gym. Probably some kind of hip exercise. Apparently it’s one thing for a super-soldier to heal a shattered pelvis, and another to get it working in peak condition again.

Jump in Steve’s heart-rate. “Hey Matt. Is everything OK?”

His hands close around the parallel bars as he reaches them. No. He shakes his head. It’s not OK. “I had an idea.”

“OK.” Steve’s voice is soft. No wet to it like Foggy’s voice. No shakiness like Bucky. “Deep breath and tell me about it.”

He takes a slow measured breath, hands clutched tight over the parallel bar. Lucky leans against his legs. “It’s a big deal.” He wants to run away and forget he ever had this idea. He wants to tell Steve and have him help him. He wants to break out of the tower and do it himself without asking for help. That’s what he’d do if this were a television show, right? That’s what the old him would want to do. The next words come out as a hushed whisper. A secret. “I’m scared.”

“All of us get scared sometimes.” No lie in Steve’s heart. “Why don’t you tell me about this idea of yours, then we can figure out what to do together?”

“Tony couldn’t get a clear shot of his face.” Matt drops his hands from the bar to pick at his hoodie. They’d kept Matt informed. Tony identified everyone in the crowd who met the criteria except for one who kept his face covered. “Tony lost him, but only after he’d walked for blocks. So he was probably headed somewhere on foot.”

“Yeah.” Movement of hair as Steve runs a hand through it. “Tony’s trying to narrow it down further. There are a lot of buildings in the area. Mostly residences. We might not get anywhere with this.”

“I-I-I c-could.” Now his words decide to break up? He’d done well so far considering this afternoon. Taking a deep breath, he tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter if he speaks, stammers, or has to use one of his aids. “We know - we know where he was. I can tr-tr-track by s-scent. I remem-remem - I know his scent.”

A long silence. When Steve speaks again it sounds like he's choosing his words carefully. "You're right. This is a big deal. Why don't we talk to Foggy and Bucky about it, and we can help you decide what to do?"

Matt shakes his head. "Foggy will get up-upset. And Bucky has - it's his day. I don't w-want to bother him."

"Matt, you're not a bother." Steve sounds pained. "You're never a bother. Even if we're tired or upset, you can always come to us if you want something. It's nice that you came to me first this time. But if everyone in the tower seems busy or tired, then I want you to know that you can still come to us. OK?"

It's a lot to take in. At the orphanage there were a lot of kids. Most of them with disabilities or behavioural problems since no one wanted them. It's still so hard to imagine being able to ask things from people without being a burden, and distracting someone from something more important. He shrugs.

***

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to," Foggy says on the car ride to the street where the cameras last saw Baseball Bat. "You can change your mind."

Matt wishes he'd stop saying that. The decision was hard enough to make in the first place, even with Steve calmly breaking things down into lists of benefits, and Sam turning up in time to remind him there was no wrong choice. He'd begged Steve at one point to just tell him to do it and take the decision from him. It'd taken two half pills of xanax to calm down from that.

He shakes his head. If Baseball Bat is behind the threats on Foggy and the others, then locking him up could help. He'll do anything to keep Foggy and the rest of them safe.

Natasha and Matt step out of the car. No Lucky. No cane. This is his disguise. One of Bucky's hoodies that's even more baggy than his usual ones. Natasha hanging off his arm in hoodie, swish of skirt, and snap of gum every few minutes. Just a young guy with his girl, walking home. No blindness. Nothing unusual.

The car drives away. It'll circle the block a few times to drop off the others. Bucky, Steve, and Sam.

It takes a few minutes to pick up the scent. Concrete isn't the best place for holding scent. Luckily the pavement is poorly maintained and cracked in places. The grass poking up through the cracks holds the scent much better.

There are sounds that he always finds difficult to block out no matter how focused he is. Blare of sirens, cock of a gun, click of a knife, screaming, crying. Something in his brain flares up at them, the same way it does when he senses anger. Danger, his brain says. Do something.

All of his triggers are firmly in the danger category. So it's no surprise when he reels back at his first scent of Baseball Bat, muscles tensing ready for a fight.

Natasha doesn't say anything, but suddenly there's a small strong hand slipped into his own.

The xanax helps. With two doses in his system the panic lacks sharp edges. Duller. Easier to ignore. A few measured breaths and he's even again. Or as even as he can be with a slight tremble coursing through his body with every inhale, and phantom sensations of hands gripping his hair.

Natasha doesn't let go of his left hand. Staying by his side, even as he makes some detours down the wrong paths, before backtracking. Scent on concrete has a tendency to drift.

When his tracking takes them through an alleyway, the trembles increase to full body shudders. She wraps his arm around her shoulders, like he's the one protecting her, and murmurs what sounds like a Russian lullaby under her breath.

He'd explained before they left that his triggers were impossible to miss. His brain doesn't let him not pick up on them. He meant it as a reassurance to himself and the others. If Baseball Bat spoke, he'd hear it from blocks away. If he didn't speak, he'd notice his heartbeat within twenty feet. As long as he keeps his disguise and the others stay close, it's unlikely Baseball Bat will be able to get the drop on him.

There's one thing he didn't anticipate. Other triggers flare up in his brain just as brightly.

A man grunts with pleasure on the second story. Slap of flesh against flesh as he fucks someone who seems to like it just as much. It morphs until there's a too heavy weight on his back. Pain splitting him in two. Smell of old spice. Hot breath in his ear, and "I'm just giving you what you want." Fresh tears spilling down his face.

"You've reached your limit." Natasha's hand brushes his cheek, as swift and firm as her voice. Smell of salt. Is he crying? "Time to go home Lapushka."

No. He shakes his head. Focuses on the beat of her heartbeat through their clasped hands. Tries to pull his attention from the noises above them.

"Have you found him yet?"

Another shake. It takes a moment to find the scent trail again. The night air feels colder than it did a few seconds ago. He tugs Natasha along behind him. He's not sure if he could let go of her hand if he tried.

"Five minutes," Natasha says after a long moment of walking beside him. "No longer. Got it?"

No room for argument in those words. He's heard the nuns use the same tone. A nod. Five minutes.

Natasha's counting down the last seconds with a steely warning in her voice when he stops in front of what sounds like a very tall building. Lots of noises within. Residential. A block of flats. He inclines his head towards it before continuing on. It won't do good to loiter.

Natasha rattles off the location to the humming of electricity in her ear. He wonders if she can hear it buzzing like he can.

It's hard to say if Baseball Bat is still in there. He can't hear a heartbeat. That could mean he's not there, or it could mean he's on one of the higher floors. No voice, but that doesn't mean Baseball Bat isn't there.

Blinking quickly his footsteps falter, then turn around to approach the building again. His right hand slips into his pocket. The marble maze and Spike the Stegosaurus are there. Foggy says he's not allowed to fiddle with Spike without someone to supervise, but he'd made an exception this time. The smooth spikes and mottled skin help.

Natasha's hand stiffens in his. "Matt..."

The scent ends at the door to the block of flats. Buzzing of electricity next to the change in airflow that means door. His fingers find metal buttons beside plastic that he guesses hold the names of the residents.

No voice. So maybe Baseball Bat is asleep? If he is in there, then all Matt needs to do is walk up the stairs. The walls aren't thick. He only needs to be within twenty feet of the heartbeat and he'll recognise it. Then he can tell them a floor and maybe even a apartment number.

The Avengers can't search an entire building for someone who might not be there. Besides it's unlikely they'll be able to ID him without Matt's help. His description isn't sighted person friendly.

He tries to convey that to her. 'want' he signs. Makes a gesture for hear. He doesn't know that sign yet. Taps his chest rhythmically to signify a heartbeat.

"Murdock wants to go inside the building to scan it."

Tattle tale. Huffing he presses one metal button after another. Voices buzz into focus over the intercom. None of them that he recognises. A few angry statically voices later and there's a loud buzz click of the door unlocking, even without him speaking. He pushes it open.

"They'll be here in a few seconds." Scrape of rock. Natasha places a piece of brick in the doorway? Crunch as the door doesn't close all the way. "They think this is a bad idea. I do too."

Matt finger-spells 'quick.' Tries to ignore the fluttering of nerves in his stomach. It's not like he's planning on confronting the guy. He just wants to narrow it down to a floor. Or at least check if he's in the building. He wants to do things right. If Baseball Bat finds out they tried to look for him before they lock him up, he could get really mad. He could take it out on Foggy or Karen or one of the others. That makes Matt's insides twist a lot more than going inside the building to make sure.

The stairs have metal edges. He can taste them on his tongue. Baseball Bat’s scent clings to the damp walls of the stairwell along with dozens of others. There’s a lot of his scent. Maybe that means he’s come and gone this way a lot of times. Or maybe it’s just Matt’s strange brain intensifying the scent the same way the static electricity atmosphere of anger seems to fill an entire room.

Quick footsteps and gasping sounds. Bucky and Steve enter the building before Matt’s made it up one step. Fear sweat clinging to both of them. It’s difficult to smell it beneath the regular sweat. They must’ve run fast to get that worked up. Not the best undercover work.

Why are they so scared?

“Matt.” Steve sounds relieved. “Nat, what are you thinking?”

“I’m not.” Natasha’s hand is no longer in his. He misses it. “He is.”

Weight of gazes on him. He shifts uneasily before continuing up the stairs. Walk to the top floor. Keep his ears open. With luck he won’t even need to leave the stairwell.

“I’ll take point,” Bucky says after a long period of silence. His uneven footsteps move past Matt’s own, trotting quickly up the stairs.

“I’m on flank.” Steve doesn’t sound happy about it. “Nat. You’re Matt’s bodyguard.”

They’re on the sixth floor when he hears it. A mutter coming above and to his right. “I should’ve known I couldn’t trust that rich bastard.” Phantom hands grip his hair. The mutter takes on footsteps, then a heartbeat. Getting closer. Moving fast.

“Matt.” Natasha’s hand on his arm. It feels far away. “Do you hear him?”

He tries to gasp out an answer before remembering his voice doesn’t work around her.

“Possible sighting near sixth floor. Stand by for more information.” Her voice softens. “Matt try to point.”

He can’t figure out how. His ears zero in on the clink of metal against leather. A gun. The man may not have had one after Bucky’s hearing, but he has one now. Slide of metal against leather as he pulls it out of a belt. Click of the safety being disengaged. Tap tap of metal against fabric. Another weapon. Baseball bat.

It’s the baseball bat more than the gun that makes the air inside his lungs freeze despite the xanax. Clang as the door on the landing above Matt and Natasha swings open. Bucky’s two floors above. He can’t help.

Shocked breathing as Baseball Bat sees them. Natasha’s in danger. So’s Steve. Foggy and Sam too. They’re all in the man’s path. Matt should help. But his feet are fixed in place. All his muscles are frozen solid. He can’t move.

Natasha tenses at his side. A hand grips his hoodie. Another hand grips his knee. Then before he can figure out how she managed it, he’s over the railing. “Steve! Gun!”

Lurch in this stomach. Falling through the air. Large arms catch him. Loud sound. Gun shot. It explodes his ears. Another one. Lots of movement. It’s hard to make sense of it all.

The heart beating through him is Steve. Steve’s holding him and running. His mind interprets that much before he’s set on a floor that smells like bleach and damp. Enclosed air currents around him. A small room. Smell of chemicals around him. Steve’s hand firm on his shoulder. “Stay here.”

Slam of door shutting him in the enclosed space. A storage cupboard? Steve’s footsteps are fast, light, panicked as they leave him alone. What’s happening? More sounds of gunshots. Loud roar of a motorbike engine. Sam swearing. Bucky’s voice saying “You’re gonna be fine. Nat. Nat, stay with me. You’re gonna be fine.”

***

Matt refuses to go to sleep until Natasha gets out of surgery.

Bruce doesn’t complain when Matt sits up in his bed when he’s supposed to be lying down and meditating. Instead he stops guiding Matt through the meditation and says with a wry smile in his voice “I don’t feel like meditating right now either.”

The soothing music stays on in the background as Matt dips his hands into the box Natasha gave him, pulling them out slowly and feeling the soft pom balls roll over his skin. Differing sensations make his skin crawl right now, so he takes the hidden treasures out as quickly as he can. Scraps of velvet and silk. A large smooth button. A metal jingle bell that makes a pretty tinkling sound.

Bruce sits beside the bed and talks about his work. It’s going well, but animal trials take a long time. He’s planning on doing another trial with another species of animal before he goes to human trials. He says he’s seen the consequences of rushing science first hand, and doesn’t want that happening to anyone else. Every now and then he stops and reminds Matt that what happened wasn’t his fault.

The ache in Matt’s chest grows more painful everytime he says that.

“You still up Matty?” Foggy sounds tired as he walks into the bedroom. The footsteps move around the bed, then there’s a dip of the mattress as Foggy sits down. An arm with Foggy’s heartbeat wraps around him. “Why don’t you go to sleep bud? Candy’s coming to the pool party tomorrow, remember? Not going to make a good impression with raccoon eyes.”

Matt scoops out some pom balls and lets them trickle through his fingers. There shouldn’t be a pool party without Natasha.

Foggy sighs. Warmth on the side of Matt’s head as Foggy leans against it. “He communicated with you at all?”

Movement. Bruce shakes his head. “I think he’s still in shock, but he’s self soothing. That’s a good sign.”

“Yeah. It’s just difficult seeing him like this. It seems like whenever I think we’re getting somewhere, we end up back here.” A hand with Foggy’s heartbeat smooths through his hair.

“He met with his abuser in a threatening situation,” Bruce says. “His abuser hurt his friend, then got away. It’s not surprising he’s experiencing some negative effects.”

“Pardon my interruption sirs.” Jarvis’s voice comes from above Matt’s bed. “Captain Rogers wishes you to know that the operation was a success. Agent Romanov underwent a vein graft to repair the damaged femoral artery. The doctor’s main concerns are extreme blood loss. They’re replenishing it, but the next twenty four hours are crucial. Her system’s undergone extreme stress.”

“If anyone can make it, it’ll be Natasha,” Bruce says firmly.

***

It’s his fault.

Natasha’s fast. The only reason she wouldn’t be able to get out of the way in time is because she got him to safety first. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. She took the time to tip him over the railing and into Steve’s arms.

It’s all his fault. And they didn’t even end up catching Baseball Bat. Steve was too busy getting Matt away from the gunfire. Bucky was too busy stabilising Natasha. Sam was securing the elevator at the back of the building. Clint and Foggy had to rush back to take Natasha to the hospital quick. And Matt was too busy freezing.

He thinks of all the reasons why it’s his fault as he drags Spike’s sharp points across his skin. At first they’re too dull to do much damage. But Matt knows how to make the points sharper with his nails and teeth. He knows that if he bites until there’s a little nick in the plastic, that will catch and tear at his skin.

His blood feels heavy, like it’s filled with everything that’s bad about him. Maybe if he gets enough of it out, he won’t be such a horrible person. He can start again. Be better. Be someone worthy of friends like Foggy, Karen, Bucky, and the Avengers.

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice. His feet slap as they walk into his bedroom. Bare feet. Right. He must’ve been sleeping. “Jarvis says you’re not responding. He’s worried.”

The swampy heaviness is back again, except this time the feelings are there too. There’s enough time for his jerky limbs to stop gouging at his arm, but no more before the heavy blanket lifts from over his head.

Foggy’s heartbeat jumps. Hands grip his upper arms. “What did you use?”

He’s not sure whether it’s a voluntary movement or the shock of the sudden grip that makes Spike fall out of his hand. Is Foggy mad?

Foggy’s breath chokes. “You used the dinosaur we bought together? Damn it Matt!”

Matt’s shoulders hunch. One of his hands is gripped so hard it hurts, placed over his right forearm where the cuts burn brightest. Pressed down.

“Keep pressure on that. Jarvis, I need you to get Bruce so I know if he needs stitches. It must’ve been in his pocket. Why in the hell does he have the hoodie under the covers with him anyway?”

Jarvis sounds offended. “Mr Murdock often wears a hoodie over his pyjamas. I believe it to be a source of comfort for him. I have no orders that he’s not allowed to do so.”

“Right. Right. Sorry Jarvis. It’s my fault. I forgot to make sure he put Spike away before he went to bed.” Foggy’s hands leave Matt. Sound of hair moving as he runs his fingers through it.

“Doctor Banner says he’s on his way.” Jarvis’s voice softens. “Might I suggest you readdress your choice to blame yourself?”

“Yeah. I need to be a good influence, right? I’m a human and humans make mistakes. What’s important is that I learn from it.” Hair brushing against cotton as Foggy shakes his head. “Just - damn it Matt, why did you have to use Spike for this? And you bled all over Bucky’s hoodie, and goddamn it Matt.”

Foggy’s steps stomp as they move away.

Bucky’s hoodie. Spike. Foggy’s mad. He remembers the day they bought Spike from the museum gift shop. Foggy had tried to convince Matt that every exhibit had changed since the last time they were there. He’d walked around describing every awesome new exhibit. A real life stuffed werewolf. A space ship that looked oddly like the star ships from Star Wars. A man eating plant looking hungrily at them. By the end Matt was laughing so hard he could barely stand up.

Matt ruined Spike. He ruined Bucky’s hoodie. He might’ve killed Natasha. And now Foggy’s mad again. The first sob bursts from his mouth as loud as the gunshot that hurt Natasha. Then there’s a second, and a third, and he can’t breathe.

Hot breath on his face as Lucky takes advantage of finally being able to reach him. The dog laps at his neck and face. It must’ve been Lucky fussing at the blankets that alerted Jarvis something was wrong. If he’d stopped what he was doing Foggy might not have found out. He could’ve answered Jarvis. Stroked Lucky. Foggy wouldn’t be mad at him again.

Or maybe it’s better this way. Better to get it over with.

Slam of plastic against the mattress. Matt flinches.

“Hey Matt.” Foggy’s voice is softer this time. “Come on bud, what’s with the tears? Is this about Natasha?”

Foggy’s back with what smells like a first aid kit. He doesn’t sound mad anymore. Anger uncoils in his stomach. Foggy should be mad. Matt forces in a breath. His words spill out of his mouth, cracked and broken. “Why don’t you get it over with?”

The mattress dips as Foggy sits on it. “Get what over with? Gonna need a little more explanation here buddy.”

He’s calling him buddy. Matt’s stomach turns over. He pushes Lucky’s head away. “You’re going to leave. You should just go.”

Foggy sighs. “We’re onto this again? Matty, you’re family. I may get upset and need some space sometimes, but I’m never going to leave you.”

“You did once.” The pain of the memory almost makes the tears start up again. “After you found out about Daredevil. You didn’t mean to come back. I could tell.”

“And I came back, didn’t I?” Hands pull the sleeves of the hoodie up. “Yeah, this isn’t going to work. Come on, strip.”

Matt makes no move to help. “Your life would be easier if you didn’t come back.”

“Easier maybe.” Foggy’s hands lever him upright. Remove the hoodie, then start to work at the buttons on his silk pyjama top. “Not better. And if you don’t think I’d come running back after hearing what happened, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

“Maybe I’d have died.” Matt’s not sure why he spits out those words, but he does. The anger in his belly stretches, wanting to take over his entire body. “Maybe I’d have laid down in that fucking bed and just died.”

Foggy’s hands still. “Buddy, everything’s going to be fine. I’m not going to leave. Natasha’s going to pull through. They’re going to catch the guy. They have his name now. Steve got a good look at his face, and I swear he has a photographic memory judging by his drawings. Not to mention the guy’s wife and son were in that apartment he ran away from. They’ll find him.”

Matt shakes his head stubbornly. “You’re going to leave. Natasha’s going to leave. Everyone’s going to leave.”

“We all live here.” Forced humour in Foggy’s voice. “We can’t leave. In case you forgot I don’t have another apartment anymore.”

“Then I’ll have to leave.” It makes sense. Although Matt doesn’t really have another apartment either. Not one that doesn’t have dead dogs and people breaking in on a regular basis.

Foggy eases the pyjama top away from Matt’s torso. “Bail conditions say your residence has to be here so Tony can keep an eye on you.”

“Then I’ll go to jail. I’ll go to jail, and you won’t have to be my friend anymore. And you’ll be safe. And I won’t be around to screw everything up. And I’ll be happier. I’ll be happy because I won’t have to wonder when I’m going to make you mad or upset. When you’re finally going to leave again. Everything will be better and - and-” He’s not sure when he started crying again.

Foggy’s hand strokes through his hair. “Me thinkith the Matty doth protest too much.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” Matt says, voice small.

“Got that buddy. That’s a big part of why I’m not leaving.” Foggy’s hand detours to smooth his hair away from his forehead. “The other part being that I don’t want to leave.”

“Natasha told me it was a bad idea.” The tears keep falling. Burning hot on his skin. “I went - I went in anyway.”

“Then she got shot, and now you’re adding it to your ‘reasons to blame myself’ pile like an angry squirrel gathering acorns.” Click of plastic as Foggy opens the first aid kit.

“I froze. She got - she got shot saving me.”

“Uh huh. And I suppose it’s all that old man’s fault that you got blinded. It did happen while saving his life.”

Matt blinks in confusion.

"Matty." Tearing sound. Smell of antiseptic wipes. "I don't get how you manage to see the value in everyone but yourself. Look, you've been learning about choices, right? How you have to make an informed choice for something to be your fault? You chose to knock that man out of the way of the truck to save his life. It's your fault that he's alive. The chemicals was just extra shit that happened that neither of you could anticipate. Same with this. Natasha chose to save you. It's her fault you're safe. You made no choices, so her getting shot isn't your fault. The only one at fault is the guy who pulled the trigger."

The wipe stings as it touches the cuts on his right upper arm. Matt shakes his head. "I chose to go in there. Natasha didn't want me to."

"And did you know she would get hurt?"

"No." If he'd known that he never would've entered the building. "I thought I could scan the building without anyone noticing we were there. I didn't think he'd come out. I don't know why he did."

"If you didn't intend for her to get hurt, then it's not your fault she did." Foggy removes his palm from his right forearm to clean it. The burning cuts scream. "Look, you can argue about whether going in was the tactically correct decision with Steve. He seems like the expert on that stuff. At the most you made a poor decision to enter the building. But everything from the point when you froze wasn't your fault because you weren't making any choices at the time. Get it?"

It's a lot, and like anything that doesn't put the blame on him, it doesn't make sense. "I don't know."

"We'll get there. God I hope we'll get there. Just keep letting us help you. And maybe next time you get the itch to carve yourself up with one of your favourite toys, contact someone first?"

He's supposed to do that. He knows he's supposed to do that. "You were sleeping."

"Matty." A hand pulls his head forward until his forehead touches Foggy's. The words are shaped by gritted teeth. "You are my best friend and I love you, but you frustrate the hell out of me sometimes. You are more important to me than sleep. You're more important to me than anything. So the next time you think you might hurt yourself and I'm catching z's what are you going to do?"

Matt takes a deep breath. "Ask Jarvis to get you?"

"It'll be a nicer wake up call than this mess." More stinging. Foggy isn't a gentle nurse. "Or you could contact any of the others, or Jarvis can talk you through what to do, or you could try using that app Bucky installed on your computer. We're throwing support at you here buddy. But you're the one who needs to reach out and take it."

Matt reaches out the arm Foggy's not attacking to grip a handful of cotton shirt. A fragile hope flickers to life in his chest. "You're not going to leave?"

"Never ever." Truth in Foggy's heart. "In case you haven't noticed Matt, I'm madly in friendship love with you. I built my whole life around you. My family adopted you. I've had more than one girlfriend break up with me because they felt they were competing with you, and recognised that was a battle they'd never win. I go through withdrawals when I'm away from you too long. Those weeks when you were in New Delhi and Catskills were horrible, and we skyped all the time. You and me buddy will be doddering old men playing pranks on the poor unsuspecting nurses hired to stop us getting in too much trouble."

Matt tries to make himself believe it. It's hard. He's been expecting Foggy to leave ever since he found out about Daredevil. Part of him wants to cling tight to him and never let go. The other part thinks it'll be less painful for both of them if Foggy gets it over with and leaves already. "Is Natasha going to leave?"

"I hope not buddy." An antiseptic wipe brushes against the lighter cuts on his other arm. "I hope not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Bucky sings is this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WvDnMjPPHCI  
> Sam also likes: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U4t5ycSkUZM  
> Clint not so secretly likes singing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otAFRGL4yX4
> 
> Bucky's app is loosely based on: http://www.my3app.org/


	38. Chapter 38

Sometimes monsters have human lives.

Matt tries to explain this to Lucky before Candy, Anna, Jessica, and Karen are due to come for the pool party. It doesn't seem like much of a pool party with Natasha in the hospital, but Foggy said that between Candy's course load and job at the online newspaper she doesn't have many free days to make the trip. Matt has his trial coming up. And since Saturday is therapy day everyone would be hanging around the tower anyway. It's not feasible for all of the Avengers to sit at Natasha's bedside at once.

Steve said it wouldn’t be the kind of party they were planning, but they can still be there for each other while they wait to hear about Natasha.

“Baseball Bat has a name,” Matt tells Lucky, tapping his back against one of the ramps in the Nerf gun room and trying not to do the same with his head. Monsters having names never seems to make sense in his head. Baseball Bat’s name is Lawrence Rowe. He works in construction. He has a wife and a young son. “His wife refuses to cooperate. Says he’d never - he’d never… She thinks we’re setting him up. ‘Cause he served time for assault. He has a kid. It doesn’t make sense.”

Half of the four already in custody have jobs. Old Spice in construction for the same company as Baseball Bat. Skittles at a bar. Old Spice had a girlfriend. Maybe some of the others did too. But none of them are married, and none of them have a kid.

He should be used to this. Fisk had Vanessa. Even monsters have people who love them.

Lucky sits next to him, calmly lapping at his fingers. Every now and then the dog noses at the sleeves of the hoodie Matt borrowed from Foggy. Maybe he smells the blood from the cuts. No stitches, but Foggy says the ones on his right forearm look pretty gruesome.

“Pepper and Sam are with Natasha.” Matt stops tapping his back against the ramp to bury his fingers in Lucky’s fur. It’s soothing, and it gets rid of some of the dog slobber. “So’s Clint, but that’s because he hasn’t left Natasha since it happened. Bruce, Foggy, and Steve said what happened to Natasha wasn’t my fault.” That doesn’t make sense either. “Steve said he didn’t like my decision because it could make me upset, but it was the right thing to do tactically. They couldn’t have searched the building without me. The only description they had was mine and a very vague one from the Josh guy who only met him once.”

He plays with Lucky’s ears the way the dog likes. Talking about all of this helps. It’s too muddled keeping it in his head. Natasha is hurt. No one says it’s his fault. Steve says there’s nothing wrong with his decision to scan the building. How can Natasha be hurt if he did nothing wrong?

“I froze,” he tells Lucky. Foggy says he didn’t choose to freeze, so that’s not his fault either. Fiona said something about this, didn’t she? “It’s a natural reaction to trauma.” The sentence ends up sounding like a question. He’s still not sure about that.

Soft knocking against wood. One of the ramps. Matt flinches. He’d been so absorbed in trying to work things out that he hadn’t heard anyone enter the room.

“Matt?” Bruce’s voice. Cautious. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to warn you. Tony finished his therapy session. He’s keyed up right now. And he and Bucky have got it in their heads to design something for you. I’m afraid it’s partly because of something I said. I suggested it might help for court. So you might end up with more attention than you want today.”

If Tony’s making something else for him, then he can’t be mad about Natasha, right?

Sound of Bruce’s feet shuffling. “Karen and Jessica are here too, and I think your family should be here soon.”

His family. It takes a moment to realise Bruce means Anna and Candace. Warmth flutters in his chest, comforting amid all his worry about Natasha. He gets to his feet.

“And uh.” More shuffling noises. Skin against skin. Some movement of fabric. Bruce rubs the back of his neck? Fast fluttering heartbeat. Nervous. “My father. I was an odd kid. He didn’t like it when I stimmed. He hated every one of my special interests. He wanted me to be average I guess. And most of all he hated my mother for loving me. He’d hit her, and I’d just freeze. My school, they noticed I was different. They referred me for testing. My Mom, she knew how he’d react. So she tried to save me by taking me away. He caught her. I was so angry, but I couldn’t move. Not one inch. Not even when he killed her. So I understand something of what you’re feeling. It took me a long time to figure out it wasn’t my fault.” He gives a wry chuckle. “I’m still working on that actually. So I wanted to tell you - I wanted you to know that what happened to Natasha wasn’t your fault. Not for freezing, and not for her saving you.”

Matt remembers the first time he’d shaken Bruce’s hand. The way the man’s heartbeat echoed through his body, allowing him to sense multiple old bone breaks that hadn’t healed quite right. It’s a lot to take in. He dips his chin in acknowledgement. There’s really nothing else to say.

“You ready to brave the force that is Tony on an inventing spree?”

Not really, but he nods anyway.

***

“So there are compression therapy vests, weighted therapy vests, a lot of different types of therapy vests.” Some kind of wild gesture from Tony. Tugging across Matt’s shoulders as Tony adjusts the suit jacket. “But I figure the bottom line is you want deep pressure. Not too much that you panic or suffocate or whatever. Not so little that you don’t get your jolt of calm. How to distribute the pressure is the interesting question. Do we go for even distribution like your weighted blanket, or do we try to replicate a human hug? For now I’m keeping it as even as possible, while keeping pressure off parts we shouldn’t add pressure to. But hey, a hug jacket could be cool. I’d need to collect data on hugs first. Jarvis, start collecting data on hugs.”

“And what would the variables of this ‘hug’ research be Sir?”

“Ah, I’ll decide that later. Jarvis, remind me to decide that later.”

“As you wish Sir.”

Tony’s hard to read. His heart is faster than usual. His words and movements are fast and clipped. There’s something in his voice. It’s hard to tell what exactly.

Matt tries to stay as still as possible sitting on the day bed in the gym. His ears focus on the rant Jessica’s giving Steve.

Her feet pace back and forth. A heavier tread than should be possible for someone of her height and shape. She seems to be about Foggy’s height. So maybe an inch shorter than Matt. “I showed her the screen-shots from the video. And that fucking bitch still denied it.”

“The scars are distinctive,” Karen says quickly. “There’s no way she didn’t recognise them.”

His shoulders hunch. He’d guessed that Jessica watched the video. Did Karen watch it too?

“Oh she recognised them all right.” Movement of hair. Jessica runs a hand through it. “Right before she slammed the door in our faces. If Blondie hadn’t dragged me away to your stupid party-”

Leather crinkling. Karen grabs Jessica’s arm. “You’d have broken her door down. Probably threatened her with laser eyes. I get it. Then she’d have gone to the media, talking about the super who tried to kill her in front of her kid, while the police are tracking down her husband accused of shooting one of the Avengers. You don’t think that’ll look a little suspicious? Like make people think the Avengers are involved in strong handing members of the public kind of suspicious?”

“Like I care about these rich asshats and their stupid costumes.” Jessica’s heart does something funny. Maybe not a lie, but definitely not the truth.

“You care about this case,” Foggy says from beside Bucky. “You charge in there like an angry bull, you give her a weapon she can use to make some people believe the Avengers are trying to set her husband up as a scapegoat like she thinks. These court cases are becoming as big of a media storm as the case against Matt is. We need to tread carefully. We can’t afford mistakes.”

The media is talking about the rape cases? It makes sense. The video was what sparked this whole thing, and when the first three found were indicted at Grand Jury nine days ago their identities would be available to the public. A shiver travels up his spine. He wants to know what they’re saying about him just as badly as he never wants to know what they’re saying about him.

The sound of air. Pressure increases around his torso.

“I’m like 99.9 percent certain this won’t explode.” Tapping. Tony stays crouched in front of him, pressing a button.

Bucky shifts by Matt’s side. “Tony,” he growls.

“Relax. It’s safe. You approved the design remember.” More tapping. “So it’s really simple for now. We’ll add different hug options later. Tweak it. Upgrades are always fun. You press the up arrow, the jacket fills with air and the pressure increases. Press the down arrow, the air is let out and the pressure decreases. The control is attached to the pocket so you can’t lose it. Play with it and let me know what you think.”

“There’s a emergency release on the front,” Bucky adds. “In case you panic and need it off quick.”

Tap on the back of his hand. He turns it over and something plastic is placed on his palm. It’s small and rectangular. Two large buttons. Both have the etching of arrow on them. One arrow points away from the springy tether that pulls at the inside of one of the jacket pockets. The other points towards the tether. Thinking carefully, he presses the one pointing away from the tether.

That slight sucking sound again. The pressure around his torso increases. It’s good, like the weighted blanket. It cuts out sensation from the outside world to the covered areas. Makes everything feel the same. The deep pressure is soothing. Almost like a hug.

Movement from Tony. The man sits back on his heels. “So, what do you think kiddo? If there’s anything you don’t like tell me now. I’ve still got all the rest of today and tomorrow to make improvements.”

It’s good. I makes him feel more secure. Sometimes when he’s panicked it can feel like he’s floating around into the chaos of the room. This pressure will help him feel more grounded. He gives Tony two thumbs up, then signs ‘thank you.’

“It’s nothing,” Tony says dismissively. “Took less than an hour to put together. Hey, Foggy said you sometimes have issues using your razor in the mornings. I could fix that no problem. Design you a new one.”

All at once Matt thinks he understands. The too fast heartbeat. The jerky movements and way of speaking. The slight note of something desperate in Tony’s voice. This is Tony’s coping technique. The same way Sam uses baking to calm down. The same way Bucky watches ponies or shoots guns. Or Bruce uses meditation. Or Matt uses boxing or soft things. Hesitating, Matt signs ‘please.’ It’s strange to admit he wants something. It’s stranger to ask for something that someone else will toil over without giving anything in return. But if it helps Tony, then that’s OK, isn’t it?

“You got it puppy.” Less strain in Tony’s breathing as his muscles relax. Having something to do seems to help him. “So I looked at the one you’re using. Pretty nice model. Close shave. Goes easy on the skin. Bet the vibration gets annoying though.”

Matt nods. The way it vibrates through his jaw makes him want to puke sometimes. But it’s easier to use than non electric razors, and there’s less of the feeling of sharp metal blades scraping along his skin. No matter what shaving gel he uses, he can never get used to the sensation of metal cutting along his neck.

Sound of plastic against fabric as one of the humming things in Tony’s pockets makes its way to his hand. “I can fix that. OK kid, get out your computer. You have the next ten minutes to tell me everything you like and don’t like about your razor. Robocop, are you gonna be my glamorous assistant again?”

“As long as you don’t call me your glamorous assistant,” Bucky says.

“Green bean, what about you?”

“Sure Tony.” A small smile in Bruce’s voice. “I can be glamorous.”

***

“You’re even hotter than you look on TV,” is the first thing Candace says to Bucky. Matt’s pretty sure she’s talking to Bucky. She could be talking to Steve, Bruce, or Tony, but it’s Bucky’s heart that flutters with nerves. A rise in the temperature of his head. Blushing? “I mean, youza!”

Matt slumps forward on the day bed, hiding his face in his hands. Does Candy have to be so embarrassing?

“Candace sweetheart.” Yes, Anna, voice of reason. “I don’t think Matt and Foggy want you talking about their friends like that.”

“And I for one am disgruntled that you’re not talking about me like that.” Tony’s fast footsteps make their way to Candace, Anna, and Ned’s heartbeats. “Hello. I’m Tony Stark. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Eh.” Some kind of gesture from Candace. “You’re kind of old.”

Matt grimaces and signs ‘sorry’ in Tony’s direction.

“But he’s like a hundred,” Tony splutters.

“And hot!” A grin in Candace’s voice.

“Sorry about my daughter Mr Stark.” Skin against skin. Anna shakes Tony’s hand. “She’s twenty-six, but she seems to be convinced she’s still a teenager. Me and Ned are delighted to meet you. Ned even decided to close the store last minute so he’d have this opportunity. I hope you don’t mind. Of course he could’ve left that lovely girl Hannah in charge but Mr Controlling here thought she wasn’t up to it, even after she’s practically run the place the last three years.”

“I think she can handle it, I just don’t want her playing that loud music she likes so much. It’ll disturb the customers.”

“Oh shush you. AC DC has some wonderful songs. Just because you refuse to listen to anything but classical doesn’t mean there’s not perfectly good other music out there.”

“If you can call that stuff music. It sounds like a whole load of clanging noise to me.”

Lucky finally stops his snorting and snuffling happy dance around the new arrivals, paws clicking over to Matt. A high pitched yawn. Then undignified thump of flesh against wood as he collapses next to Matt’s feet.

Wide gesture from Foggy. Raising his arms? “I promise my family is mostly sane.”

“Did you know you’re dorito shaped?” Candace’s voice comes from next to Steve. “And my God, that butt…”

Huffing, Matt pushes himself to his feet. His fingers find Candy’s shoulder, then trail down to grab her arm. He drags her away from Steve, towards the Nerf gun room that joins to the pool. If the pool looks as fascinating as it sounds, maybe it’ll distract her.

Candy trots after him obediently enough, shifting in his grip to give him a light punch on the arm. “Dumbass. That’s for not telling me you live in a house full of super-models. None of the pictures on tumblr did them justice.”

***

Matt’s feeling shaky when he walks back into the room with the pool after therapy that afternoon.

Foggy walks by his side, voice gentle as he reminds him how many steps there are leading up from the Nerf gun room to the pool. He’d asked to go with Matt to his therapy session. He does that sometimes, but not as often as before. This time it was because he’d wanted to talk to Fiona about what Matt said last night and his behaviour today.

Matt’s not sure why his behaviour today is such a problem. He’s just trying to help. Everyone has upset in their voice. Even Candy sounds upset at times although she’s clearly trying to hide it. Bucky and Steve were tired from staying with Natasha all night, so Matt made sure they ate, and exercised when they sounded frustrated, and that Bucky got to watch ponies on one of Tony’s humming devices. Candy seemed to like that, sitting next to Bucky and asking questions. Anna seemed to recognise it meant Bucky was upset, because she supplied him with endless snacks and strokes through his hair.

Matt endured Tony’s poking and prodding, made sure Bruce got all the tea he wanted. He ate all his breakfast, lunch, and shake so no one could get sad about that. He even managed to eat some of the endless snacks Anna pushed his way. He goofed off with Candace, playing with one of the beach balls, though he refused to enter the water to do it. He sat at the table by Stacy’s coffee bar, and managed to stay there a full fifteen minutes with Anna, Ned, Candy, Foggy, and Bucky, even when someone walked to the bar a few metres away to order a coffee.

He’s doing good. Even Fiona said the things he’s doing today are nice, but she and Foggy are worried he’s pushing himself too hard again. She’d asked him why it’s so important to him to do everything well today. “Are you trying to atone?” She’d asked him.

Lucky’s claws click against the tiles, echoing strangely around the pool. Laughter comes from the water, but not the bad kind. Steve and Candy seem to be playing a game that involves a lot of splashing. Matt listens curiously. Flesh against flesh. Dripping water. Steve picks up Candy? Sharp movement from Steve. Sound of falling through air. Loud splash. Candy’s shrieking giggles and Steve’s soft chuckles.

“Steve’s picking her up and throwing her into the water,” Foggy explains, walking over to Sam’s too fast heartbeat and tense muscles. Ceramic against flesh as Sam takes the mug with a reverent “Thank you.” “You know, like parents do to little kids. Our Mom used to do that all the time when we were little. Your dad ever do that with you?”

Matt shakes his head, finding Pepper’s heartbeat in the creaking swing of the hammock. He hands her the mug of Bruce’s calm tea, made the way Jarvis recommended. His dad took him to the library whenever he had time, the museum sometimes, maybe the zoo once when he was small, but never the pool.

“You are a lifesaver Matt,” Pepper says, humming around her first sip. “I needed this. Thank you.”

Matt shrugs. It’s no big deal. She and Sam needed something to calm them down after finishing their shift at the hospital. They deserve it.

Bucky’s heartbeat comes from one of the larger hammocks, slow in sleep. Good. He needs to rest. It can’t be easy going through all this worry about Natasha after the stress of the hearing. Matt settles down on one of the fleece covered deck chairs by his side.

“Heads up Matt.” Soft thump of Sam throwing something in his lap. A fleece blanket. Not his favourite one that he keeps in the coffee table upstairs in the communal lounge.

“Are you feeling all right sweetheart.” Anna’s heavy footsteps move to his side. Slight shifting sound of the thin dress she’s wearing as she crouches down. A hand combs through his hair like he’s the most precious thing in the world. It’s different to the way people treat him like glass sometimes. Those times people treat him like a burden who can’t do anything by himself. This isn’t like that. This is like he’s special. Like he’s someone loved.

His chest aches, but he nods. Why wouldn’t he be fine?

Fabric shifting as Karen sits up in the deck chair next to Jessica. “Hey Matt, you didn’t take that meditation Foggy suggested before Bruce and Tony left to go sit with Natasha. Why don’t you take it now? You’re looking pretty tired.”

He frowns. But what if someone gets sad again? Matt needs to help them.

Water splashing as Steve lifts himself from the pool close to Bucky’s hammock. “Matt, when we made the schedule this morning these times near the pool were supposed to include rest times. Everyone else is resting or playing. Why don’t you do the same?”

Waves of heat flow off the pool. Matt takes off Foggy’s hoodie, leaving the long sleeved t-shirt he’d picked out to cover the cuts on his arms. He tugs the sleeves over his hands nervously, then makes the sign for ‘Sam’ then ‘tired.’

“Thanks for pointing that out Matt.” Sam sounds sincere. His feet move toward the deck chair on Matt’s left. Another of the fleece ones. Soft sound of shifting fabric as he sits down. “I’m going to finish my tea, then catch a nap. Why don’t you do the same, you’re looking pretty tired too.”

Bucky’s sleeping. Ned’s sleeping, his snores as loud as Foggy’s can be. Pepper’s close to sleep. It should be fine to join them, but it’s not. He needs to keep them safe and happy. ‘Steve’ he doesn’t know the sign for the next word, so he finger-spells it ‘worried.’ He’s pretty sure that’s what the too fast, strange pattern of Steve’s heart is.

Scraping of skin as Steve leans against the edge of the pool. “I’m worried about Natasha. I’m also worried about you right now. We’re sticking together today so we can look after each other. You’re doing a great job of looking after us, but you’re not letting us look after you.”

Matt spreads all five fingers of his hand, then taps his thumb to his chest. ‘I’m fine.’

“I don’t think you’re fine Matt,” Sam says quietly from the other side of Anna.

“Honey.” Anna’s hand strokes through his hair again. “You’re shaking.”

Matt blinks several times. A steady quiver travels through his body. He’s not sure how long it’s been going on. ‘Karen’ ‘sad.’ The signs are more jagged than they should be.

“We’ll deal with that Matt,” Steve says. “You don’t have to look after everyone yourself.”

“People are going to be sad, upset, and worried for a bit,” Sam adds. “Everyone’s pretty broken up about Natasha. We can’t fix all of that. Sometimes we can just be there for each other.”

That can’t be right. They’re not supposed to be sad. Wet trickles down his cheek, followed by more wet. His hands form jagged angry signs. ‘Natasha’ ‘hurt.’ He doesn't want anyone else to be hurt or sad.

The deck chair shifts as Lucky tries to climb onto it. Anna gets there first, folding him in her arms like he’s a small child instead of a grown adult. It’s appropriate. He doesn’t feel much like an adult right now.

He feels sad and scared. People are upset. Maybe they’ll get angry. Natasha is hurt. Maybe she’ll die. He knows everyone said it wasn’t his fault. But it still feels like it’s his fault. He can hear her voice telling him _"They think this is a bad idea. I do too."_ He can count every one of the long seconds between when he first sensed Baseball Bat to the moment the man opened the door to the stairwell. He can feel the tightness of his muscles when they didn’t let him communicate what was coming. He can hear the gunshot.

‘Natasha,’ his hands manage to sign from within Anna’s encompassing hug. ‘Want’ ‘Natasha.’

“Is Matt OK?” Candy asks from over by the pool.

“No Candy.” When did Foggy get so close? “I thought you knew that.”

“I wanted him to be OK,” Candy mumbles.

The sobs aren’t as violent as last night, but they’re uncontrollable. It’s like someone’s taken over the controls for his body. Like he’s sitting, watching from somewhere distant as the tears flow and hiccups erupt from his throat. The scent that feels like sunshine drifts to him from this far away place. Hands stroke through the hair of the body he’s not occupying. Wordless noises of comfort fill his ears. A hand with Foggy’s heartbeat rubs his back.

It feels like forever before the tears finally stop. He cleans his face with shaky hands. It’s difficult when Anna’s arms don’t leave him. It’s nice too. Safe. His Dad wasn’t much of a hugger. Not past the age of three or so. He’d clasp Matt’s shoulders or ruffle his hair. Little acts of affection he seemed to know Matt craved. And sometimes when Matt got a good grade or studied longer than Dad said he should, he’d get a big long bear hug that made his heart sing, and a promise of ice cream. Sometimes when he did really good Dad would sit beside him on the bench while he ate it, and leave his arm slung over Matt’s shoulders. It wasn’t quite the long cuddles and unconditional affection he remembers getting away with when his Dad considered him a baby, but it was good.

“Drink up sweetheart.” Plastic placed in his shaking hands. Anna sounds like she’d cried too.

He sips the water slowly, his breath still uneven from all the crying. His head throbs dully. It feels like his limbs are made of lead.

“Whatever happens we’re going to get through this Matt,” Foggy says firmly. “It’s going to get better.”

“Matty.” Shifting as Bucky sits up in the hammock. His voice groggy with sleep. “C’mere.”

It’s no more than a metre from the deck chair to the hammock, but Anna and Foggy have to steady him in order for him to make it. Bucky and Foggy help him climb onto the padded material. It’s big. Large enough for them to lie side by side with only their shoulders touching. Only Matt’s too wrung out to worry about how he looks to others, or whether he’s being too needy. As soon as his knees make it onto the hammock, he gauges where Bucky is from his touch, then buries his head in Bucky’s neck. The heartbeat pounding through him says safety, the same way Foggy’s heartbeat always does.

“Ain’t no fancy remote controlled hammock like you have upstairs.” Bucky’s arms wrap around him, and it feels more secure than any one of Jarvis’s security measures. “But it’ll do the job.”

A hand with Foggy’s heartbeat rubs his back. “Go to sleep bud, or meditate or whatever. You’re running on empty.”

Matt tries. He really tries, but every time there’s a splash of Steve or Candy, or Karen or Foggy when they join them, he tenses despite the warmth and Bucky’s strange metal, hot plastic scent.

Bucky’s voice is a sleepy murmur. “What izit pal?”

He’s supposed to start saying when he wants something. That includes when he’s worried about something and wants reassurance. He’s allowed to ask for reassurance. Sometimes he forgets that.

He pulls away from Bucky’s grip, letting go of the rumpled t-shirt to sign ‘no’ ‘hear’ ‘heartbeat.’

For a moment he wonders if Bucky had his eyes closed and didn’t see him, then the man speaks. “Whose heartbeat?”

Matt points towards the water on the other side of Bucky.

Another long silence. “You mean when they’re underwater?”

Matt nods, then uses his hand to demonstrate the water level, raising it until it’s over his chest. Once the water’s that high he can’t hear their heart. It’s disconcerting. He’s used to being able to check if someone’s OK by focusing on their heartbeat. Instead there’s nothing, like they’re dead.

“Didn’t think of that,” Bucky says through a yawn. “Must be difficult to keep an eye on them when you can’t sense them properly. That part of why you’re so on edge today?”

He shrugs. He’s not sure. He’s not sure of much except his head feels like it weighs a million tons, and his ears keep searching for Foggy, Karen, Candy, and Steve’s heartbeats and not finding them. Sleep tugs at his eyelids, trying to pull them closed.

“Jarvis will keep an eye on them, won’t you Jarvis?”

“The safety of the people in this building is of the utmost importance to me Mr Murdock,” Jarvis’s voice echoes around the room. “I’m equipped with knowledge of all the signs of distress, both in and outside the water. I assure you that the health of your friends will be protected to the best of my considerable capabilities.”

“See pal.” Bucky yawns again. “Itz fine. Anyway, you think I’d sleep if I didn’t know it was safe? Let Jarvis handle it. You trust him, right?”

Matt nods against the padded hammock. He trusts Jarvis.

“Then get some shut eye. Come on. I know hyper-vigilance is a bitch, but you can trust us to look after things while you get some rest.”

It’s difficult to dial down the worry. But he trusts Jarvis. He needs to learn to trust other people to do things without trying to do it all himself. He needs to learn to let people help him. That’s something Fiona’s told him many times.

He finds a handful of Bucky’s t-shirt to hold onto, then forces his body to relax.

***

“Your body is like a car,” Ned says when he drags Matt down to the parking garage to help him fix something on his well used vehicle. A 1966 Jaguar E-Type. Matt’s not into cars, but he knows that at least to Ned it’s special. The man bought it when he was young as a wreck, then fixed it up. He claims it’s the most beautiful car ever made. “If you don’t recharge the battery it won’t work when you want it to. Do you understand what I’m saying son?”

Not really, but Matt nods anyway. It’s the best tactic when Ned gets into car metaphors, which is a lot.

Creak as the boot opens. “Help me with the spare tire.”

Matt tries to take most of the weight. Ned has back problems that flare up every now and again, although he doesn’t like admitting that. Matt woke up from his nap with everyone acting strange. It turns out he’d had another night terror. Even Candy heard before Ned took her away to get more food. This time Matt insisted on listening to the footage.

It was bad.

His voice sounded more like a child’s than an adult’s. High pitched and terrified. The words came between gasped sobs. “Dad.” “I want my Dad.” And occasionally “Please, please, I want Dad.” Not much variation. Foggy says there usually isn’t in his shouting night terrors. Sometimes he adds the word ‘Help’ or the word ‘Sorry.’ Sometimes ‘Dad’ is replaced with ‘Foggy.’

Hearing it is very different to hearing about it. That’s probably why Ned insisted on bringing him down here away from everyone. Giving him time to process.

Loud creaking noise of the car jack. The car complains as it’s lifted. “You can remove the lug nuts this time,” Ned says, sounding like he’s giving Matt a great honour. Which he is. Not just anyone is allowed to work on his car.

Luckily Matt’s had some practice. Ned always has an old car in his garage in some state of repair. It’s a hobby for him. Something to do alongside running the hardware store. He sells or gives away every one of them except his precious Jaguar E-Type. He’s constantly recruiting someone to lend a hand with one of those vehicles.

Ned hovers close until he’s done, his heart beating fast like he’s afraid Matt might blow it up by helping change the tire. Sound of rubber as he swaps the old tire for the spare one himself. “Your car runs best when the tires have the right pressure. Just like that, your body isn’t going to run well if you have too much pressure in your life. It seems like you have more than enough pressure without adding more like you’re apt to do. Me and Anna know you better than you think Matt. Not enough to guess about the whole Daredevil thing, but well enough.”

Matt shuffles uneasily in his crouched position. He and Anna talk sometimes over his messaging system or Skype. They haven’t talked about the fact that Matt lied to them for so long.

“There. That should do it. Now tighten up those bolts, all the way. I don’t want the tire falling off while I’m driving.”

Matt sets to work, making sure the bolts are as tight as he can make them.

Predictably Ned takes the lug nut ratchet from him after he’s done to check the bolts himself. “I’m sure Anna’s told you this, but we’re both very proud of you. All we wanted was for you and Foggy to grow up to be good boys who helped people, and you’ve done that in spades.”

Matt flushes, warmth blooming in his chest. The feeling reminds him of when his Dad was so proud of him after getting a good grade at school. Something about that sends a pang of hurt through him that adds a bitter sweetness to the warmth.

“You know, about two years after Foggy first brought you home we thought about asking you to join our family officially. You can do that you know. Adopting an adult. We looked it up. We decided not to broach the subject in the end because we know what your father means to you. We didn’t want to risk offending you in case you thought we were trying to replace him.” Slow creaking of metal as Ned lowers the car jack. “We could never do that. But in case you do want to join the fold officially, know that me and Anna would jump at the chance. I think she’s got it in her head that it’d help her look after you if you got hurt again. You know how much she worries. She has nightmares sometimes about you getting terribly hurt, and when she turns up at the hospital they refuse to let her in or tell her anything because she can’t prove she’s related.” He clears his throat. “Not that that should sway you one way or the other. We’ll love you whichever you choose.”

It’s a miracle Matt doesn’t fall down. His lungs feel too tight, like someone’s squeezing them. Having a mom or a dad is an idea he buried for good not long after Stick left. The desperate desire for a family popped up again in college. Perhaps it never left. He thought he’d found it with Electra. A wife, a couple of kids, people he could belong to.

He loves Foggy, but every day he’s conscious of the fact that Foggy can walk away. There’s no official tie bonding them together. No matter how many times Foggy says it, they’re not family anywhere but in their own minds. And here are two people he cares about offering to tie themselves to Matt forever.

Thoughts swirl around, making his head spin. God, yes. No, what if someone targets them because of him? But he wants this. But he’s used to not belonging to anyone. It would be nice to belong to someone who he knew couldn’t walk away. Would his Dad mind? Foggy would be his family for real. Could they really love him the way they and Foggy say they do? Maybe Anna would let him call her Mom.

“You don’t have to decide yet son,” Ned says gruffly. “It’s a big decision and you’ve got a lot going on at the moment. Now, help me get these back into the trunk.”

***

“Once he found a baby bird that fell from its nest,” Clint says from the television screen. A pause. “Yeah, that’s the bird. It looks so ugly, right? Anyway, he bundled it in leaves so he wouldn’t get his scent on it, then got me to help him put it back in its nest. That’s the kind of guy he is. He senses someone or something in trouble, he can’t walk away.”

“Clint’s pointing to a large picture of the baby bird on the screen,” Foggy says from the large couch behind Matt. Matt’s getting better at having people hover over him. “The big screen makes it look even more ugly.”

“He sounds like a real sweetheart,” Ellen’s voice says from the television.

A smile in television Bruce’s voice. “He is.”

They’re watching the interview the Avengers did about Matt. It’s eight PM and Anna and Sam wander around in the kitchen area making supper. Jessica and Karen are gone. Tony and Bruce will be with Natasha and Clint for another couple of hours. Bucky and Candy have apparently warmed up to each other after bonding over ponies and are still messing about in the pool downstairs. Steve wanders about gathering watercolours and equipment they need.

Ned and Pepper help Matt make flowers for Natasha.

Roses, Matt had decided, since Natasha always smells like roses. They’d said he could still help people as long as he sticks to pointing out what he thinks is wrong for now and suggesting things that could help. That way they can delegate the task to someone else if they think Matt’s already doing too much. Matt’s having trouble moderating his activity levels right now, so they say he needs some help with that.

Sam says the roses were a good idea because Matt seems to find crafts calming.

Pepper draws and cuts out the petals using the template Steve made. Matt arranges the petals to look like roses he remembers feeling. Ned fixes them onto the thick floral wire that serves as stems with floral tape. Then Matt curls the petals with a pen Pepper let him borrow, and places them on the other side of the coffee table ready for Steve to colour.

“You’ve got to realise,” television Steve says. “Everything Matt did was to help people. When I was young I’d take on anyone who I overheard bullying anyone else. I’ve read the history books. The ones that mention what I was like pre-serum call it heroic. Well, I’d say what I did back then was a lot less heroic than what Matt did. If I had his hearing at that age I’d be knocking on the doors of ninety percent of the city calling them out on being jerks because they disrespected a lady or stole a kid’s lunch. He targeted traffickers with the intent of freeing the victims. He tracked down mass murderers, then used the law to lock them away. He sent constant anonymous reports to the police. Most of these assaults they’re charging him with were just him stopping a crime in progress. He showed a surprising amount of restraint.”

Shuffling of fabric as Steve sits on the other side of the coffee table. He still smells of chlorine from the pool. “You said you wanted to use a different colour for each rose. Which ones?”

Bucky taught him how to sign his colours. He still remembers them. ‘Purple’ ‘Clint’ ‘Pink’ ‘Natasha.’ When he’d messaged Clint he said pink is Natasha’s favourite colour. He points at himself, finger-spells ‘sky’ then signs ‘blue.’ ‘Red’ ‘Tony.’ ‘Yellow’ ‘Bruce.’

A smile in Pepper’s voice. “One for everyone’s favourite colour.”

He nods. Something else too. He finger-spells ‘colour’ ‘vase’ then signs ‘Jarvis.’

A smile in Steve’s voice too. “You want Jarvis to choose the colour of the vase?”

Another nod. It makes sense. Jarvis looks after all of them. It’s only right that he should choose the container that looks after all the flowers too.

Something in Jarvis’s voice he can’t quite name. Surprise maybe. It’s difficult to tell without all the cues he’s used to. “I’d be honoured Mr Murdock. I’ve always been fond of orange myself.”

“Can I ask,” Ellen says while Steve’s hanging the first rose upside down to dry. They’re using coffee filter paper which Steve says will absorb the colour well, and this will make the tips a little darker than the rest of the petals. “Is he still not talking?”

“Matt’s selectively mute,” television Sam answers. “So some situations are easier for him to communicate in than others. Most of the time he can communicate with an old friend of his as long as no one else is in the room. He’s usually pretty good at communicating with the rest of us using his communication aids except when he’s very stressed. He’s improving though. Just these past few weeks he’s started verbally talking to Bucky, Steve, and Jarvis - the AI in the tower.”

“I know you’d prefer it if he was talking,” Ellen says. “But that must feel pretty good being the first people he opened up to.”

“Buck was the first.” A noise. Television Steve pats television Bucky? “He’s really good with him.”

“It looks like it.” The audience makes a lot of confusing noises. Sounds like they’re cooing. “What is this? Is he sleeping?”

“It’s the picture of you sleeping after Bucky gave you a piggyback ride,” Foggy says helpfully. “You’re all curled up. Your head is burrowed into the back of his neck, and you look impressively adorable.”

“He refused to turn back,” television Bucky says. “Said he didn’t want to ruin anyone’s hike. Took him over twenty minutes and him almost walking into a bush for him to let me carry him.”

They’re going to have eleven roses. Bright red for Tony. Yellow for Bruce. Purple for Clint. Pale pink with hot pink tips for Natasha. Light sky blue for Matt. Bold blue for Steve. Dark blue for Bucky. Army Green for Sam. Dark red for Foggy. Cream with orange tips for Pepper. Black for Karen. Foggy looked it up, and he says eleven roses means ‘To assure someone they are truly and deeply loved.’

Natasha does have a lot of people who love her.

“So that’s good, he’s improving?” Asks Ellen.

“He’s working very hard at getting better,” television Natasha says. “He does get set backs. This trial has been very high stress for him.”

“I can’t imagine,” Ellen says. “To be suffering from PTSD, undergoing a trial, and helping the police with the case against his attackers. Then he flies to India to help find people buried under rubble. I saw the reports. He saved a lot of lives. How does he do it?”

“Given the severity of his PTSD, therapy is a full time job for him,” television Sam says. “But Matt is all about helping others. If it was for himself, he wouldn’t be able to summon the mental energy needed to face the situations he needed to in order to save those people, but because it was for others he could do it. He had some pretty significant fall out afterwards. But I know in his head the lives he saved more than made up for that.”

“Then there are the threats,” television Clint says coldly.

“And the police harassment,” television Tony adds. “Hasn’t exactly made this a walk in the park.”

“I’ve heard about the threats,” Ellen says. “But not the police harassment.”

“We don’t want to name names-” television Steve starts.

Television Tony snorts. “Screw that. Wright is his name. Detective Wright. First time I saw the kid Wright was shoving him into the table. Bear in mind this was when the puppy had a recently broken arm, cracked ribs, and bruised and cut everything. Because Murdock went practically catatonic for huge chunks afterwards, it took over a week and a whole body scan for him to admit Wright punched him so hard he re-cracked a rib.”

Shock in Ellen’s voice. “Where was this?”

“The police station,” television Steve says. “Where he should’ve been safe. Tony, Matt, his lawyer, and a witness filed reports, but when we ask about an investigation we get stonewalled.”

“Wright talked to him later at the tower,” television Bucky says quietly. “Said some nasty stuff when he was supposed to be taking Matt’s statement about the assault. ‘Course, it took some time for Matt to admit what was said, and Jarvis doesn’t monitor private meetings like that. His lawyer filed what he could when Matt finally opened up about it.”

“Right now Matt needs quiet and time to recover,” television Natasha says. “All of this added stress isn’t helping. He’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve this. All he thinks about is other people. What he can do or make that might make them safe or happy. I’ve met bad people who deserve to go to jail. He’s not one of them.”

“Wow,” Ellen says. “That’s really bad. We tend to think of the police being the good guys.”

“I’m sure most of them are,” television Steve says.

“From all that you’ve said about Mr Murdock, and these wonderful pictures, I’m wondering where the media is getting the idea that he’s violent. Have you heard about this?”

“There are a lot of false things floating about Murdock out there,” television Natasha says. “His lawyer filed a lot of lawsuits which seems to be slowing them down. We’re trying to be as open as possible with the public without talking about anything Matt doesn’t want us talking about, so they don’t have to get their information from a less reliable source. Clint often puts updates on his tumblr, and Pepper puts more official things on the Avengers twitter account.”

“Don’t go on any of Tony’s accounts,” television Bucky says. “It’s just way too odd.”

“Hey!” Television Tony sounds disgruntled.

“There were some misconceptions about Matt’s public panic attack over a month ago,” television Steve says. “A lot of newspapers called him violent when he didn’t hurt anyone. Like the press release afterwards said, he was badly triggered by the prosecution mixing something up and showing him the video. As you can imagine he had one hell of a panic attack and ran away. I had to restrain him. Not because he was violent, but because he was so scared he ran into traffic trying to get away. He screamed and struggled not because he was trying to hurt me, but because he had no idea who I was. In his mind he was running away from the men who attacked him, then he suddenly gets grabbed around the middle. He was terrified. If I had let him go, all he would’ve done is run away and try to hide, but he could’ve hurt himself in the process.”

“He’s been out in public since and had some severe panic attacks,” television Sam adds. “None of them were violent. Not even when the trigger was a man storming at him and shouting.”

“We tend to stick pretty close to him,” television Clint says. “To protect him, not to protect anyone from him. So if something were to happen we’d be around, but Matt’s about as likely to attack someone as anyone else in this city. Probably less likely considering some New Yorkers I know.”

The national anthem blares from Steve’s pocket as he’s hanging up another rose. His muscles tense. The sound from the television stops as someone pauses it. Fabric against plastic as he takes his phone from his pocket. His heart beats fast. “How is she?”

The doctors said the first twenty four hours were the most crucial. They’re still a few hours away from that. Why would they call sooner. Unless Natasha’s dead?

Matt thinks about taking the paper flowers to Natasha’s funeral instead. Anger bubbles up. Natasha isn’t supposed to die. She’s supposed to be Matt’s friend. They’re supposed to spar together for real. Natasha said they could once he’d built up his right arm a bit more. They’re supposed to sit next to each other and listen to the rest of Odd Thomas. She’s supposed to rant to him about the character in Hunger Games she liked who got killed off in one sentence. And how she’s not sure how she feels about that, because he deserved more, but a short sentence killing off a well developed character showed the way war takes lives as if they have no meaning.

His hands want to hit. To tear every flower apart. To punch the coffee table in front of him until his hands bleed. He curls up to stop it, wrapping his arms around his legs instead.

A hand with Ned’s heartbeat on his back. Hesitant. “Did you hear what Captain America said son?”

Steve said something? Matt shakes his head.

Shifting of fabric as Steve crouches down again. No upset in his breathing. “It’s good news Matt. Natasha woke up. Only for a few minutes, but she woke up. Considering the blood loss, her vitals are strong.”

Foggy’s foot nudges his side from where he sits on the couch behind Matt. “They think she’s going to be OK.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The jacket Tony and Bucky make Matt is based on this one:http://www.mytjacket.com/
> 
> Here is how to make coffee filter paper roses: http://www.emmalee-design.com/art-design/coffee-filter-rose-tutorial/


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I've received a few complaints about Matt acting childlike. In the second to last scene of this chapter he displays some behavior that could definitely be seen as childlike. A few scenes like this will pop up in the following chapters. There are reasons for this which will be mentioned by Fiona. If you don't like Matt reacting to trauma this way, then don't read. (For clarification the trauma he's reacting to in this chapter isn't the rape.)

“I don’t-” Matt says early Sunday afternoon after they get lunch at the Japanese kiosk in the cafeteria downstairs, and eat it next to Stacy’s coffee bar. Or rather, Bucky ate his, and Matt waited until he was finished to go upstairs and eat his own. “I can’t.”

“That’s fine.” Steve’s voice is soft and patient. He shouldn’t be. He still smells of blood from the bank robbery he and Sam helped stop earlier. “Today was a big day. You can play as much or as little as you like. This isn’t a serious game.”

They’re huddled around the coffee table. Matt, Steve, and Bucky. A game of scrabble between them. Matt runs his fingers over the braille on his tiles again, but can’t think of any words. There must be some, but he can’t think of any.

They’d planned to go to Sunday mass at Father Lantom’s church. Foggy finding out they had another suspect in custody put an end to that. It’s not like Matt would be able to concentrate on anything else until the line-up was over with, so they’d decided to do that instead. The call out for Captain America would’ve cut Steve’s mass short anyway. So maybe it’s for the best.

The descriptions Pepper sent out worked. The first one is in custody. The rich kid who smells like basketball and bubblegum. Someone at the private hospital he went to about his thumb contacted the police with an anonymous tip. The line-up hadn’t been nice, and he’d taken xanax as usual, but this time hadn’t been as bad as the others. Maybe the Zoloft is finally having an effect. Fiona did say it could take up to four weeks to work. It’s been just under four weeks since he started taking it.

Bubblegum will be arraigned tomorrow. Old Spice is still at Grand Jury. Dirt, Skittles, and Cocaine are awaiting trial. Foggy says because the media is getting so involved with these trials, they might be fast tracked and go to Supreme court earlier than the usual few months.

Only the second one: Baseball Bat to go. Steve says they have his photographs out there. It’s only a matter of time.

“Here.” Rattling of plastic against wood as Bucky upends the cloth bag of scrabble pieces in front of Matt. “Just practice making words. You don’t have to play any.”

Matt hums under his breath, tracing the new tiles more than he should do. With the xanax wearing off and the memory of Bubblegum’s voice in his head, it’s harder to stop the stimming. No one comments on it. “I used to be - used to be - good at - at this.”

Plastic against plastic as Bucky places tiles on the board. “Hey, puzzles, jenga, we’ve got to be better at you at one game, right?”

“I’m also good at - at pool.” Matt finds a ‘N.’ Maybe if he gives his brain time to piece together one long word, he can manage it. It’s difficult. He knows the concept of Natasha. Natasha is rose shampoo. Smooth graceful movement. A gentle hand slipping past his defences to tag him. A patient voice explaining why a thought pattern is unhealthy when he doesn’t understand. A guard against triggers so he doesn’t have to be afraid to listen to a book meant for anyone older than middle school.

Finding and remembering each letter. Piecing together how they fit to make a word. That’s something his mind seems to think is much harder than memorising any number of physical puzzles. Words are too abstract. Too complicated.

Fiona says that words are a very emotive topic for him right now. Possibly as a symptom of his social anxiety and selective mutism. So it makes sense that the more he has to think about a word, such as when he’s typing instead of using PECS, the more his mind shies away. She thinks that’s why sometimes PECS and sign can be easier for him than typing.

Whoosh as the elevator doors open a while later. Sam’s footsteps walk out. Smell of clean. Head and shoulders shampoo. It doesn’t wash out the metal and cinnamon tinges to his scent. “Did you even change?”

Steve makes a shushing sound from the other side of the coffee table. “I’m finally beating Bucky for once.”

Bucky snorts. “Thought this wasn’t a serious game?”

“For Matt it’s not. For us, it is if I’m going to beat you.”

“And I suppose if you lose, then it wasn’t a serious game and doesn’t count?”

A grin in Steve’s voice. “Got it in one Buck-o.”

Heavy sound of flesh against flesh. Bucky shoves Steve. Flesh against carpet as Steve falls over. “ _Don’t_ call me Buck-o.”

Shifting of fabric as Sam sits down next to Matt. His clothes shift more than Steve’s. Is Sam right? Is Steve still wearing his uniform? “What are you doing Matt?”

“He’s practising words,” Bucky says for him after a long pause. “His brain’s still kinda stalling from this morning.”

“Natasha, Foggy, Karen. And I’m guessing B.U.C is going to be Bucky?” Something fond in Sam’s voice.

Matt nods.

Sam makes a thoughtful noise. “You’re going to need some more letters for that.” Plastic against plastic. Sam takes some tiles from Steve? Plastic against wood as he places them in front of Matt. “Here you go Matt. In front of your right hand.”

“Hey!” Steve says indignantly.

Bucky sniggers.

“Hey yourself.” Humour in Sam’s voice. “It’s not a serious game, remember?”

Matt traces the braille tile a few too many times before placing them next to the B.U.C tiles to complete the word. The act of concentrating on something makes the fog in his brain thin. It’s easier to think. “Can we - um - I want-”

Everyone’s hearts speed up, especially Sam’s. Right. It’s the first time he’s spoken in front of him.

“Yeah Matt?” Bucky’s voice is much more casual than his heart.

They’d re-jigged his schedule after the line-up and Steve and Sam’s mission messed everything up. It’s free time. Matt gets to do whatever he wants. Not something he needs to do. Something he wants to do. Most of the time he just goes along with someone else’s choice, but at least once a day he has to choose an activity.

“I want to - can we-” Shaking his head, he pulls the PECS book from his satchel instead. Skipping to the page with phrases, he removes an ‘I want’ card. Then flips to the activity page. Rips off the ‘bake’ card. Places it next to ‘I want’ on the coffee table.

“Sounds like fun.” No lie in Sam’s heart. “What are we making?”

“For.” He finds the tiles that spell out Natasha. Taps them. “Everything she - um.” He signs ‘like.’

“Everything she likes?” An eyebrow raise in Bucky’s voice. “That sounds like a lot of baking.”

But it will make her happy. Matt frowns.

“How about we make her one of her favourite treats a day,” Sam says. “You can bake one in the evenings after court. That way you have something to look forward to doing after court, even when you don’t feel up to visiting her in the hospital. And she gets to look forward to a new surprise every day.”

“And you don’t tire yourself out by putting too much pressure on yourself again,” Steve adds.

Matt nods. Maybe that will be better. He likes the thought of Natasha getting a fresh treat every day while she has to stay in the hospital.

***

They make birds milk. It’s one of Natasha’s favourites, and it’s easy to eat. It’s going to take her a few weeks to get her energy back. Right now even chewing is difficult.

It’s a creamy, marshmallow-like base with a thin layer of chocolate on the top. Matt whisks together the milk and gelatin in the saucepan, while Sam uses the electric mixer to whisk the sugar, sour cream, and home made cool whip.

“Good,” Sam says after a long time of whisking. “That’s done. Pour it in here.”

Matt slowly pours the contents of the saucepan into the electric mixer. The sound of the machinery is quieter than most kitchen equipment, but he still doesn’t like the noise.

Foggy’s footsteps walk out of the elevator while they pour the mixture into the prepared baking dish. “Hey Matty, what you making?”

“For Natasha,” Matt says, leaving Sam to make sure the mixture is spread as evenly as possible. That’s not something easy for him to do with no eyesight. The breakfast bar has a rubbery cover. The edges are covered in foam and rubber. Something that started covering all hard surfaces in the communal lounge not long after his detailed rant to Foggy about all the ways he could commit suicide. “Bird’s milk.”

“I refuse to believe there’s any real substance on this planet called bird’s milk. You’re kidding me.” Foggy’s heavy footsteps approach the breakfast bar. Then he freezes, heart pounding. His voice comes out as a squeak. “Steve did you leave your _shield_ on the kitchen table.”

“Sorry,” Steve’s voice says from the coffee table. “Promise I’ll move it. Do you mind if I finish this game with Buck first?”

“You better,” Sam says darkly. Fridge opening, then closing as he puts the base of the bird’s milk in to cool. Now they just need to make the chocolate topping. “You know the rule. No weapons on the kitchen table. No exceptions.”

“No weapons on the kitchen table. No exceptions,” a voice echoes from the ceiling. It yawns. “Stupid rule.”

Sudden movement as Foggy jumps. Everyone else’s hearts jump slightly, but soon go back to normal. Matt just concentrates on putting coco powder, sugar, and gelatin in a saucepan for the chocolate topping. He knew Clint was up there already.

A smile in Sam’s voice as he pours water, then milk into Matt’s saucepan. “Clint. You do know that we can hear you, right?”

Jump in Clint’s heartbeat. He hadn’t known. Shuffling of fabric against metal. Flesh clasping metal as he hangs from the vent. Rushing sound. Falling through air. Strange sound. High pitched. Humming. “Aw shield, no. That hurt.”

“You say something about no weapons on the kitchen table being a stupid rule?” Bucky asks. Humour in his voice.

Neat movement as Clint jumps off the table. “It is a stupid rule until I land on one.”

The sound-waves are similar to Bucky’s arm. Crisp. So precise in the way they bounce off objects that he can hear the duller edges of the table and counter-tops now they’re guarded by rubber. The edges of Clint’s face bounces back at him. It’s odd. More detail bounces back to him than he’s used to. His fingertips tingle as his ears focus in on a shape he thinks is a nose. Since that day when he was nine, his best view of a nose has been tracing one under his fingers. To ‘see’ one so clearly is odd.

Then there are the other parts of Clint’s face. So many of them. His fingers remember little parts from all the faces he’s mapped. Brows. A chin. A mouth. But his fingers always moved slowly, memorising one feature in turn. Seeing them all together clogs up his brain. His ears focus on each in turn. Viewing them all together is too much information.

The sound-waves disperse after a couple of short seconds, but in that time he’s sure he sees some parts of Clint’s face move. Something about that feels wrong. Like the sensation of a spider crawling on your skin.

Bucky’s arm showed up clear snatches of detail. That was fascinating. Steve’s shield lights up huge sections of detail. That’s terrifying.

“Want to stir for a bit Matt?” Sam asks. Metal against metal as he whisks the chocolate sauce. “We need to whisk it continuously until it comes to a boil.”

“When the chocolate sauce is done, can I…” He blinks. What is he saying? Natasha is in the hospital. Steve had a mission. He can’t ask for big things like this, can he?

Fabric against leather as Foggy sits on one of the stools by the breakfast bar. “Matty, you want something, you’ve just got to ask.”

“The answer might not always be yes, but if it’s not we’ll explain why.” Sam sounds calm. “We’d prefer you to ask for things you can’t have rather than not say anything at all. That way we know more about what’s going on in your head, so we can help you.”

The words come out as a mumble. Foggy has to get him to repeat them twice. “I like the shield.”

“Hey Steve,” Foggy calls out casually. “Can me and Matt geek out over your shield?”

“Sure.” Plastic against plastic as Steve sets another word down on the scrabble board. Exasperated noise from Bucky. “Not like you can break it. Just don’t break anything with it.”

“No throwing the shield in the house,” Clint says in the same tone of voice he’d used to repeat Sam’s rule about no weapons on the table.

“See Matty.” A smile in Foggy’s voice. “All you’ve got to do is ask.”

***

Matt raps his knuckles against the shield. The result is both fascinating and terrifying.

“So this helps you see?” Foggy asks from the chair opposite his. His heart flutters with nerves.

‘The sound-waves bounce off your features without dispersing so much I can’t see the fine details,’ Matt types on the small computer. ‘Usually all I get is a vague head shape.’

“Cool.” Movement as Foggy nods. His heart doesn’t stop fluttering. “So, how do I look? Breathtakingly handsome, right?”

It’s impossible to say. Matt doesn’t have a reference for that. Foggy is strawberry shampoo, a host of smells that make up home, hundreds of sweet, sad, funny memories. He’s a long ago memory of twitching muscles under his fingers as Matt tried to map his friend’s face in his mind. He’s not this precise arrangement of bumps, and dips, and frightening movement.

He raps his knuckles against the shield again, trying to get his mind to see ‘face’ instead of ‘I think that’s a nose.’ ‘That’s possibly a chin.’ ‘That’s got to be a mouth.’ He thought if somehow he got his sight back things would be the same as they were before. And yes, this isn’t seeing exactly, but he thought he’d recognise some of it. Instead it’s like looking at the contents of an alien book. Fascinating, but strange and incomprehensible.

“Say something buddy.” Still those nerves fluttering in Foggy’s heart. “You’re going to hurt my feelings.”

“Y’know,” Clint says, from where he’s perched on the back of the large couch. “The first time I lost my hearing, it came back. Most of it anyway. For months it sounded like I was hearing everything underwater. Then I could hear. It was weird. Like I could hear people saying words, but I could only pick out a few. Like my brain didn’t remember how to process sounds.”

It’s like that. Matt points at himself, signs ‘see,’ points at Foggy. Finds the small computer ‘but I also don’t.’

Clint translates the sign language. Thumping of leather as he swings his feet against the back of the couch.

“Hey, it’s fine buddy.” Truth in Foggy’s heart. “If you don’t like this we can stick to regular geeking out. How about I describe how bad-ass Steve’s shield looks?”

He grimaces. Signs ‘sorry.’

Creaking of wood as Foggy leans back in his chair. “Yeah, I’m kicking your ass for teaching him that one Barton. He doesn’t need to apologise endlessly in another language.”

Matt’s fingers find the small computer. ‘I’m sure you’re handsome.’

“You flatterer you.” The smile stays in Foggy’s voice as he describes the shield.

***

“So Fiona said I may have a problem with small spaces,” Clint says as he scales the large tower in the jungle gym. “And I’m like: no way. One bad experience isn’t gonna wreck a life time of positive ones. Small spaces are my thing. And I’m fine if I’m awake. But half the time I wake up in a vent, I kind of freak out before I figure out where I am. Which sucks. Vent naps are the best kind of naps.”

Matt listens, alternating between swinging the tire he’s sitting in back and forth, and pulling himself up by the chains. His right arm still isn’t up to holding his weight. He grudgingly admits that makes sense. He’s only had the cast off four days. Devan said it could take a few weeks to get his strength back.

Whooshing sound as Clint swings to the ground. “You better not be putting your full weight on that arm bro. I don’t want to face the wrath of Foggy if you mess it up. Or-” his breath makes a shuddery noise like he’s scared. “Karen.”

Matt points at himself, then signs ‘good.’

“Sure you are.” Rubber against fabric as Clint hops up onto the tire swing beside him. “Matt, I need to tell you something, or confess something. Whatever. That’s something you Catholics do, right? Confess?”

Matt tugs at the chains to his tire, making it bump into Clint’s. Makes a face that he hopes conveys he better spit it out already.

“Right.” Fabric scraping against rubber as Clint heaves himself up from the hole in the tire swing. “So we all give Jarvis preferences so he can steer our Internet searches away from certain stuff. Only I was in the hospital with Nat, and I decided to look at my tumblr. And well, I forgot Jarvis wasn’t monitoring things. Someone sent a reply to a picture I posted of you.” Sound of Clint taking a deep breath. His heart hammers faster than its usual rabbit fast speed. “It was a picture. A screen shot. It was bad, and I saw. I reported it. The guy or girl or whoever probably had their account smashed by now. More if we’re lucky. And well, I’ve tried really hard to stay away from anything to do with the video. Nat said that was important to you. I’m just really sorry I saw it.”

The last of Clint’s words are hard to make out from under the pounding noise of Matt’s heartbeat. Clint saw him like that?

“Matt?”

Hopping off the tire onto the soft rubber floor, Matt walks away. Scrambling of paws against rubber as Lucky follows.

***

Matt sits curled up on the couch in Bruce’s lab and waits for Karen to reply to his message.

Creaking of Bruce’s office chair as he shifts slightly from side to side. Loud humming of a computer in front of him. “See, when I was first trying to stop transforming into the Hulk, I did a lot of research into stopping the rapid multiplication of cells. That’s what I thought was happening. That my cells were increasing in number every time I transformed. Only it turns out I keep the same number of cells. They just change and grow. It’s kind of weird, I don’t understand it all yet. But even after I dropped that theory, I couldn’t stop thinking about the ideas I came up with. Uncontrolled division of cells is a large part of cancer. Then I started thinking of ways I could adapt my ideas to cancer, and well, here I am.”

Clint saw him like that. He’s pretty sure Jessica watched the video. Did Karen watch it too?

“Mr Murdock,” Jarvis’s voice says from the ceiling. “Miss Page and Miss Jones are asking for your location. Do you wish me to tell them?”

Matt shakes his head, surprised as usual at how much Jarvis picks up without being told. Somehow the AI had known he’d come down here to hide. Although, the fact that he headed down here from the communal lounge the moment he’d heard they entered the building made it obvious. Then he sent the message to Karen.

‘Did you watch the video?’

No reply yet, which probably means the answer is yes. His stomach turns over at the idea of Karen seeing him like that.

He listens to the scurrying of mice in their cages on the other side of the lab. Lucky’s deep breathing as his feet. Bruce’s fingers tapping at the keyboard. The small computer vibrates at his side.

His fingers fumble as he places an ear-bud in to listen to the message. It’s simple. “I’m sorry. I had to.”

Anger bubbles in his stomach. Only it feels darker than he’s used to. More like grief. Like tracing the smooth wood of his father’s coffin. One voice saying “It’s time to go.” Another voice saying “Give the boy some time.” He gets to his feet, runs both hands through his hair. It’s hard to breathe.

***

“We’re going old school with this,” Tony says. Clattering sounds as he dumps objects on the other side of the workbench Matt’s sitting at. “Rubber band power.”

Bruce suggested they go see Tony in his workshop. They’d walked in to the sound of Tony cursing at Jarvis for turning off his music, but he seemed to perk up when Bruce told him Matt didn’t want to use any of his interventions, but needed distraction.

Technically craft is one of his interventions, but it’s easier to accept it when the craft activity is handed to him instead of him having to decide what to do. His feelings are too jumbled and confused to decide much of anything now, except that he doesn’t want to be anywhere near Karen or Clint.

“What colour are we thinking puppy?” Scraping of metal as Tony sits on a stool. “I have one rule: it needs to be cool.”

Matt shrugs a shoulder, rubbing his fingers along the metal workbench. He can feel the streaks where it was last cleaned.

“He likes blue,” Bruce says from the stool beside Matt’s. “Sky blue.”

“Yeah, I saw the flowers.” Wide movement. A lot of humming electricity. Maybe playing with one of those hologram things again. “Up to your usual standard of adorable. Although I would’ve thought red would be your colour.”

He shrugs. Colours are more an abstract idea than a visual concept to him. He thinks he remembers blue correctly. The blue of the sky above his father’s head when he lost his sight for good. He dreams about that sometimes. He thinks he remembers red too. Maybe. It’s hard to tell. The red coming from his father’s cuts when he stitched them up. The visual memory is shaky, worn through almost to non-existence by taking it out and picturing it again and again.

Shifting of metal and plastic as Tony sorts through the materials. “How about a sky blue car with red tinted windows?”

That could be cool. A faint hope flutters its way to the surface. He wants something. It’s always painful when this happens. He keeps imagining Stick telling him he’s weak. Or an awkward pause and someone saying no, then dozens of hushed conversations behind his back about how weird he is. But that hasn’t happened yet. Swinging a leg, he finger-spells ‘dark,’ then signs ‘red.’ Dark red is Foggy’s favourite colour.

“Sky blue car with dark red windows.” Another wide movement from Tony. “Gotcha. What about models?”

Matt frowns. Signs ‘I don’t understand.’

“Car models.” Fabric against metal. Tony shifts on his stool. “Go as wild as you want. I can print out any model casing in five minutes.”

“Funny since you’re running this high tech 3d printed car on elastic band power.” Shifting. Bruce adjusts his glasses?

“Eh.” Another gesture from Tony. “I can always upgrade later. For now no engine is going to make things nicer for Murdock’s ears, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to look shoddy. So come on pup, choose a car model.”

He doesn’t really know any car models, except… He pulls the small computer out of his satchel. Bruce and Tony’s heart-rates increase a little. Happy maybe? His fingers find the keys. ‘Ned has a 1966 Jaguar E-type.’

Tony’s heart-rate goes through the roof. Sudden movement as he gets to his feet. “What?”

Matt cocks his head. Why’s Tony so worked up? Raising his eyebrows in question, he signs ‘alright?’

Bruce sniggers. “Just make the casing Tony. Have your car related freak out later.”

Tony’s heart-rate doesn’t slow down much. “One sky blue Jaguar E-type coming up. You want a two seater or a four seater?”

Ned’s car seats four. Matt raises four fingers.

Another wide moment from Tony, then the smell of burning plastic fills up the room. Loud humming noise and source of heat across the workshop. Matt pulls the sleeves of Foggy’s hoodie over his hands and covers his nose. The workshop smells pretty bad already. Lots of traces of metal and oil in the air. Hot plastic from the computers. Hot metal from some of the robots.

“So,” Tony says. “Are we going to talk about the fact that your best friend’s dad owns one of the coolest cars around and didn’t tell me? Or would you rather spill what this freak out is about?”

He’s supposed to talk, even though he doesn’t feel much like talking right now. His hands find the small computer. ‘Did either of you watch the video?’

A pause. Bruce is the first to speak. “I didn’t. I did see the pictures of your face they put on the newspapers after it first came out. And I read an article about you before you came to the tower. It didn’t speak about the video much, it seemed intent on portraying you as a criminal instead.” Darkness in his voice. “And I’ve overheard conversations when I’ve left the tower.”

“Guessing someone told you they watched the video?” Tony asks. “Who? Jessica? ‘Cause she kind of needs to in order to do her job.”

Matt signs ‘Karen.’ His stomach turns over like it always does when he thinks of Karen seeing him like that. Karen used to like him. He’d hear the way her heart sped up when he entered a room, or talked to her. The rush of heat to her face when he paid her a compliment. She doesn’t do that anymore. He’s not sure when it stopped. Whether it ended before or after all this happened.

Maybe it was the video. No one could ever find him attractive after seeing him like that. And that’s probably a cognitive distortion. Mind reading or something, but he doesn’t care.

“She works with Jessica,” Bruce says slowly. “I can see why she’d need to-”

Matt shakes his head sharply.

“OK pup.” A soothing note to Tony’s voice that isn’t usually there. “You haven’t heard my answer yet, remember? I haven’t seen the video. A segregated part of Jarvis did give me images of your face with all the nasty stuff taken out when I was trying to track you down. I did the same to get some images of the assholes before we gave up on the police and hired Jones. Nat saw them too. We did that to try and help you.”

“Same as Karen’s doing,” Bruce adds softly.

Another shake of his head. Tears prick at his eyes. Sharp claws against his leg as Lucky tries to climb on his lap to lick him.

“Deep breath puppy. My workshop is no place for a melt down.” Worry in Tony’s voice. “Let’s make your car.”

***

Steve’s heavy footsteps make their way over to the workbench.

Matt’s being irrational. He knows that. But it’s better under here. No one can see him. He’d asked Bruce to make certain, and the man said no one can see him unless they crouch down. He doesn’t want anyone looking at him right now.

Shuffling of material as Steve sits down on the floor, leaning against one of the cupboards that smells like metal. Matt flinches. “Hey. Is it OK if I sit here?”

Matt takes in a shaky breath. Bruce and Tony are both making wild movements across the large room. He doesn’t think they’ll hear. “Don’t - don’t look. I don’t want you to- I don’t-”

“That’s fine.” Shuffling movement. “My back is to you. Does that help?”

There’s metal cold against his back. Plaster and paint that mean wall to his left. Metal workbench over his head and to his right. Lucky squished by his side. Pressing down, he drags the car backward, then lets go. Whizzing sound as the smooth plastic disappears from his hand to bump into the metal cupboard on the other side of the workbench. Creeping forward, he grabs the car and retreats to his previous spot. The tires sound angry as he lifts them from the floor, releasing the rest of the energy the elastic band gave them.

He’s been doing this for a while. Press, drag back, release. Sometimes he lifts the car from the ground without letting it go. The angry whir of the tires sounds like the chaos in his head. As much as his ears hate the sound, it’s nice to release something that sounds so angry into the world. Like the car is doing his screaming for him.

And this is probably odd behaviour for a grown adult. Playing with a toy car. But right now it’s this, or punching, banging his head, biting. Maybe even screaming for real.

“Clint and Karen told me what happened,” Steve’s soft voice says after a long pause. “They want to talk to you.”

Matt shakes his head, somehow stopping himself from throwing the car. “I don’t want to talk to them.”

“Can you explain why?”

Matt drags back the car, makes it scream. “No.”

“Could you tell me what Clint did to make you upset?”

Silence. Matt tries to drag the car tires back on the metal to his right, but there’s not enough grip or space to do it right.

“Are you mad at Clint?”

“No.” Matt turns the car upside down so he can trace the detailed shapes of the undercarriage. Then the textured grip of the tires. Real rubber so they grip well. The hub caps have bumps on them. Braille. ‘M’ on the front left wheel. ‘A’ on the front back. ‘T’ and ‘T’ on the wheels on the right side. He spins it in his hands, reading MATT over and over.

“OK.” No impatience in Steve’s voice. “Why aren’t you mad at Clint?”

“It was an accident,” Matt says. “It can’t be your fault if it’s an accident.”

A smile enters Steve’s voice. “Think you’ll let him come down and see you? He’s really scared he upset you. Buck had to take him to the range to calm down.”

Matt leans against the metal to his right, wedging himself further into the corner. “He’ll like my car.”

“Yeah?” No judgement in Steve’s voice about how weird he’s acting. “Can I see?”

Matt rolls it his way. It doesn’t travel fast without using the rubber band. Sound of the wheels leaving the ground as Steve scoops it up. “Tony made the pieces, and helped me fit them together. They come apart and slot together like a puzzle. It’s the same car as Foggy’s dad’s. It’s mine and Foggy’s favourite colours. My name is on the wheels. And Tony says he wants to find textured paint the same colour as the car and write things on it that no one can see, but I can feel.”

Plastic against skin as Steve examines the car. “What kind of things would he write?”

“Names of people in the tower.” Names of your friends, Bruce had said, then named every person in the tower including Jarvis.. “Tony made me the car, the headphones, the razor, the vest, the hammock. He got me the weighted blankets. And he knows what happened in the video. He even saw some pictures.”

Steve’s heart skips. Surprise.

“Did you watch the video?” Matt asks before his courage can fade.

“I didn’t see it,” Steve says, sounding like he’s choosing each word carefully. “I did see the pictures of your face they put on the news. I’ve heard some things about it. I don’t know which ones are real or not. And one time while I was walking with Foggy this guy came up to us. He must have recognised at least one of us. Said a lot of things I’m not going to repeat and showed us some pictures. Foggy is smart. I was ready to punch the guy’s lights out, but he stopped me. Kept the guy talking. Less than ten minutes later your police friend Brett was there. It turned out Foggy recorded the whole thing on his phone. The guy couldn’t talk his way out of it.”

Steve saw something bad, Clint saw something bad. Karen watched the video. So did Jessica. How many more? “When was that?”

“A while ago.” Metal against plastic as Steve spins the wheels of the car. “At least a week before New Delhi.”

It doesn’t make sense. “You didn’t stop being nice to me.”

Steve’s heart does that surprised jump again. “Is that what you think? That I’d stop being nice to you because I saw you got hurt?”

Matt doesn’t know. His hands open and close, needing something to keep them occupied. He wishes he had the car back.

Steve’s voice turns even softer. “Do you think Clint’s going to stop being nice to you?”

“He’s not going to treat me the same.” People never do when they know you’re broken, and this is worse than being blind. Because when he was just blind he knew he wasn’t broken, no matter how people treated him. Now he’s not sure.

“Maybe not.” Sound of wheels moving back and forth as Steve shifts the car on the floor. “It’s a traumatic thing for him to see, and we can’t be sure how it will affect him. But I can already tell it’s not going to stop him being nice to you. He still very badly wants to be your friend. So do I. The only thing that picture changed for me was realising just how brave you are. It hit home to me what you went through. How you keep trying to get better, no matter how difficult things get.”

“I didn’t want him to see that,” Matt whispers.

“I know.”

“I r-really didn’t want K-Karen to watch the - the video.”

“I know,” Steve repeats, sounding like he does know. Like Matt’s feelings have value. Somehow that simple acknowledgement helps.

***

Matt sits curled up in the back of the car, half slumped into Lucky, tangle fuzzy spinning in his hands.

This is what Karen and Jessica came to the tower to talk to him about, and what Clint was going to warn him about after his confession. They think they know who buried the complaints against Wright. She works in admin at the police station. They also think she had some hand in helping to stonewall requests for records in Matt’s case. Possibly a hand in getting Wright assigned to Matt’s case if she had enough computer expertise.

Natasha found her before she got shot.

So Bucky and Clint took him here. Near enough the place the records are stored to hear inside. Karen and Jessica were supposed to take him, but he doesn’t want to be near Karen right now. Steve says that’s fine if he needs some space to process things.

Maria Pearson is the only one on shift this evening. He can hear her tapping at plastic. A keyboard. He twists the tangle in his hand. The small interlocked pieces of plastic move in any direction. It can move in any number of configurations. The constant movement helps him focus on the woman and not everywhere else.

Unlike the other players, Maria has no one close to her affected by Fisk. No obvious motive to hate Daredevil. But Natasha’s sure she’s involved. The guard who set up Matt reacted to her name.

Another set of footsteps in the room. Brett asks for files for Matt’s rape case, saying Detective Kelly requested them. “She thinks she has a big lead that will nail these guys for sure. A witness,” he slips into the conversation casually.

A tremor in her voice. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” Sound of paper as Brett lifts the files up. Scratching of pen as he signs his name. “Not even those rich lawyers they hired will get them out of this with an eyewitness who caught the whole thing.”

It’s less than five minutes after Brett’s footsteps leave that there’s a quick tapping. Dialling a number.

Waving a hand to get Bucky’s attention, Matt puts his hand to his ear in a ‘phone’ gesture.

“It’s Pearson,” Maria says after a few long moments. “Detective Kelly’s requesting files. They say she has a lead. An eye witness. I thought she wasn’t going to be a problem anymore?”

A pause. He can’t hear the voice on the other end clearly enough to make out words. They’d had to park far enough away not to arouse suspicion. It’s male. That’s all he can tell. Wright maybe? Or the guard? Or Baseball Bat?

“Yeah, I gave her the file.” Tension in her voice. “What was I supposed to do? Look, I agreed to bury a few files, change a few things around. This is too much. I’m out. Well if he’d kept it in his pants we wouldn’t be in this mess, would we? I vote you leave him high and dry. He more than deserves it.”

Another pause. The voice on the other end of the phone sounds angry.

“Whatever. Get me the rest of my money by the end of the day or I tell everyone everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get messy when you go through a trauma or just an incredibly stressful time. You tend to find past traumas popping up and bothering you again. Matt's already shown some evidence of this. Some, like his fear of abandonment is so huge that he pretty much carries it around all the time. 
> 
> Sometimes this can result in a nasty mix of things hitting at the same time. Karen and Clint seeing things triggered the trauma of so many people seeing the video. That arguably has had as big an impact on him as the rape, and is the main reason behind his selective mutism and social anxiety. Those same actions (especially Karen seeing the video) triggered the hell out of his fear of abandonment, and also his self hate. Those mostly stem from traumas in his childhood. Childhood traumas can wallop you with a hefty doses of emotions you felt as a child (which is one of the possible reasons behind his behavior).
> 
> Since this story is about to look a little deeper at some parts of Matt's childhood, I thought this might be a good place to remind people that the rape is only a part of his trauma. And again, not everyone will react the same way Matt does.
> 
> Birds milk is a real thing. Here's a recipe: http://natashaskitchen.com/2011/11/08/veras-ptichye-moloko-recipe-birds-milk/


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a quick guide to our bad guy's names. Matt pretty much refuses to acknowledge that they have real names, and he's not engaging much with talk about them, so I thought this might be useful to some:
> 
> The order is the one Matt's given them:
> 
> 1) (Bubblegum) Justin Fletcher - youngest. Rich. Smells like basketball. Tall. Thin.   
> 2) (Baseball Bat) Lawrence Rowe - Surgical scars on knee and hip. Likes witnessing pain. Ringleader. Tar in lungs.  
> 3) (Old Spice) Dennis Short - Tall. Wide. Likes to manipulate. Calluses like he lifts weights.  
> 4) (Dirt) Todd Vasquez - Avid gardener. Deeply homophobic.   
> 5) (Skittles) Adam Thomas - (haven't had too many details about him. More of a vocal follower than a leader. Follows along with Baseball Bat and his views.)  
> 6) (Cocaine) Albert Jones - (haven't had many details about him either. Cocaine addict. Usually high.)

"The guy Pearson called used a burner phone," Bucky explains to Natasha when they step into the hospital room Monday afternoon. "Tracked it to the upper west side, then lost it. Think he must've freaked out at the phone call and smashed it."

Natasha's rose scent is barely discernible under the disinfectant and copper. Hum of machines around her. Bleach covers the floor, the curtains, the bed. Her voice is faint. "Rowe sold drugs in that area. At Fletcher's old high school. We think that’s how they met. The guard's sister in law also works at that school and lives nearby. Either could've been in that area."

Steve's footsteps walk into the room, shutting the door and Natasha's current bodyguard outside. "What about Wright?"

"No ties to the area," that strangely weak version of Natasha's voice says. "He works at the station and lives in Hell's Kitchen. Different neighbourhood. Only living relative is an elderly mother who lives with him. It could be him, but doubt it."

Bucky's uneven footsteps approach the bed. "It's good to see you looking better."

Jerky shuffling. "It's good to feel better. Kind of."

"Matt made these for you." Steve's footsteps move beside Bucky, leaving Matt And Lucky alone by the door. "Paper roses. One of everyone's favourite colour so you can remember us while you're stuck in here. Jarvis chose the colour of the vase."

"It's beautiful." A smile in Natasha's voice. "Murdock, do I smell?"

A little, but Matt shakes his head anyway. It's only polite.

"Then get over here."

There's a small object on wheels beside her bed. Smell of wood. A table. The vibrations his feet make walking towards her tells him it's mostly empty. The slight slosh of water in a container. He checks how much space there is before setting the dish down. Takes off the covering.

Her heart speeds up from its sluggish beat. "Birds milk?"

"Matt's idea," Bucky says. "Expect another treat tomorrow, but we're not telling you what it's gonna be."

"Just for that Murdock, I'll forgive you for thinking I smell."

***

Bucky uses Natasha's hair to teach Matt how to do a french braid across the top of her head. Steve feeds a surprisingly compliant Natasha by spoon. And they all try to explain how Matt's first day of trial went.

There's not much to explain. Foggy made the same opening statement he did at Grand Jury. Not guilty by reason of self defence and defence of others. Marci reacted in the same flushed heat impressed way she did before. He couldn't tell much else with the headphones on, but from the way the speech sounded he thinks the Jury took it well.

The main differences are that this time Foggy and Marci get to cross examine the prosecution's witnesses. And unlike the Grand Jury, this is a public trial. That means wading through a crowd of reporters at the beginning and end of the day. Sitting in the same room over a hundred civilians and journalists who watch his every move.

Without xanax, therapy suit jacket, and his headphones he wouldn't have managed it. As it is, the sea of reporters were the worst part. Bucky, Steve, and the security Pepper organised did a good job keeping them away, but he still needed time to recover afterwards.

"You're coming home Friday, right?" Bucky asks once they finish Natasha's braid.

"Yeah." Her heart is tired, breathing slow. It's strange to think Natasha could be worn out from something as simple as eating and talking. "Can't leave you two old timers alone too long. Who knows what you'd get up to."

Clink as Steve puts the cover back on the Birds Milk. "Get some rest. Don't worry about the investigation. We've got tails on Pearson and the guard. We've got someone watching Wright's and Rowe's home. We've got this."

***

"We're going to try something new today," Fiona says at the start of their session.

The strong smell of clay. A tall table between the couch and Fiona's armchair. That hadn't been there before.

"You seem to have difficulty with verbal methods." Fiona's casual movements make their way to the table. "So we're going to dabble in something less verbal. If you don't mind the sensation, I'd like you to manipulate this clay. Don't worry about doing anything particular this session. I just want to see how you react."

The table comes up to his waist. It's smooth metal. The clay is wet and cold. Surprisingly stiff when he touches it.

"I've got a plastic bag for you to keep your computer safe." Plastic crinkling. Presumably the plastic bag. "I don't know if it will stop you being able to feel the keys."

It turns out he can feel the keys through the plastic as long as he doesn't bunch up the bag. It should work. He places his hands on the stiff lump of clay, not sure what to do.

"I've got my own piece to work with." Sucking sound as she lifts it from the table. Slam as it falls back down. Sounds heavy. "So you don't feel like I'm staring at you while you're getting used to this. You might have to hit the clay a few times to get it to loosen up enough to manipulate it. Go ahead."

Matt gives the lump a small punch. A little give to it.

Fiona's punch sounds louder than his own. Another suck slam as she picks up her clay and throws it on the table. Sound of the clay giving as she kneads it.

Picking up the clay, he throws it down onto the metal surface. The sound is satisfying. Violent. His fists punch it. With each hit it gives a little more until it's possible to knead it. He tries that a few times. Not making any particular shapes. Just getting used to being able to squeeze this substance and change it.

It doesn't last long until he's back to hitting. Punching. Slamming his fist down on the table. Before long he's out of breath, pausing only long enough to squish it back together when he punches it too flat.

"Are you pretending it's anyone in particular?" Fiona asks, no judgement in her voice.

He nods. Slams another fist into the centre of the lump of clay.

A few moments filled with his punches and Fiona's gentle movements with her own creation. "Who is it?"

He's supposed to tell. These sessions will only work if he tries. He points at himself, then goes back to hitting.

***

They eat supper in the cafeteria. Matt, Bruce, Bucky, Foggy, and Sam. Everyone else is busy. Some are busy finding the people threatening everyone close to Matt. Others on other business.

They sit on the main tables at the back of the room. The kiosks around them are closing, so everyone tries to grab the warm food they want before it's only the prepackaged stuff left.

A dozen other people have the same idea. Most seem to be from R and D. Bucky and Bruce know all of them by name, and Foggy and Sam know a few.

He'd washed his hands, but the clay left an oily residue that makes his skin crawl. He rubs his palms against the edge of the table, trying to get rid of it.

"You going to eat buddy?" Foggy asks from his right side.

Matt shakes his head. Scratches the back of one hand, then the other. The oily feeling won't come off.

Sam's calm voice from opposite Foggy. "He doesn't like eating when he's anxious. He can eat it later when he's upstairs."

There's unscented wipes in his bag. Not that unscented is a real thing for someone like him. Pulling one out, he scrubs at his hands.

Bucky starts up a conversation with one of the R and D people. Something about programming. He's not sure.

There's a bathroom on the cafeteria floor. He pushes himself to his feet.

Worry in Bucky's voice. "You want anything Matt?"

Matt shakes his head. Points in the direction of the chemical smell that says bathroom. Wipes his hands over each other like he's washing them.

Clink of metal as Foggy puts down his fork. "I could go with you?"

He's getting better with laughter. Jarvis helps him listen to recordings of it every day, and he usually hears some when he's out of the tower or in R and D with Bucky or on the therapy floor with Bruce. He signs 'I'm fine.'

Skin against skin. Foggy rubs his face once Bucky translates. "Yup, I'm definitely going to kill Clint for teaching you that one."

"Jarvis doesn't have any cameras in that bathroom," Sam says evenly. "Matt, are you safe right now?"

He makes the sign again. "I'm fine.' He just needs to get the oily feeling off his hands and he will be.

"OK Matt. We're trusting you on this." Scrape of metal as Sam continues eating his food.

"Five minutes," Bucky adds.

Foggy sighs. "It's the door on the right." Blip in his heart-rate. Lie.

Matt uses his cane to weave around the tables, staying as far away from the other people as he can. No one comments. R and D people aren't so bad. They're really noisy on their floor with all kind of humming electronics and the occasional explosion, but most of the time they're too tied up in whatever invention they're working on to pay attention to him. And when they do, his weirdness isn't that impressive against the guy who thinks ants secretly rule the world, and the woman whose dozens of toy animals join in her experiments with her.

"Never let her hold Toothless," Bucky had warned him. "Or you might not get him back."

The men's bathroom (the door on the left of course) is cleaner than most public bathrooms. Still too many chemicals and too many smells. The soap is nicer. The same mild unscented kind that started appearing upstairs after Foggy mentioned to Tony that Matt liked it.

Three washes and the oily feel is still on his hands. It makes his skin itch. His stomach turns over. For some reason he smells cigarettes and cheap beer. It's only a sensation, but he needs it off. He needs it off right now. A faint nudge against his legs. Huffing sound of Lucky. He ignores it.

Turning the water temperature as hot as it will go, he puts the tap on full blast and scrubs. It won't come off. Not even when he digs in his nails.

"Matt?" Foggy's voice from the doorway.

Matt doesn't acknowledge him. He can't. His hands are covered in oily grime, and it won't come off.

"Hey! Hey!" Slam of metal as the tap turns off. Foggy's hands gripping his upper arms and pulling him away from the sink. Wet in his voice. "Stop that Matty. What, now you're gouging up your hands? What's going on?"

Foggy doesn't like it when he hurts himself. Matt turns his hands into fists. Keeps them stiff by his sides so he won't be tempted to keep trying to claw the oily sensation off. Panic in his voice. When did the panic come? "Fog. I think I'm having a flashback. I can't make it stop."

***

"You did very good telling Foggy what the problem was so we could help," Sam says later when a number of deep hand massages from Bucky, the soft sensations of the pom balls in the treasure box Natasha gave him, and Foggy distracting him with bad jokes make the oily feeling of the alley fade from his hands. "Is there a way we could help you tell us sooner next time?"

Matt sits at the kitchen table where Sam told him to, head resting on his arms. He's always tired after these episodes. He shrugs.

Bruce on the small couch across the room. Sound of paper and tea that smells like grass in his lap. Pepper beside him, something humming in her hands. Bucky and Foggy on the large couch with Steve's heart slow in sleep between them.

Scrape of wood against wood as Sam pulls out a chair on the opposite side of the table, then sits down. "Today I'd like to play a game."

Matt grimaces. He hates Sam's games. Most of the time they mean he has to role-play a situation. 'It's the middle of the night, and you're so anxious you can't sleep. What are you going to do?' Or 'You're having suicidal thoughts and the only person in the tower is Foggy who you just had a fight with.' Or 'You panicked while we were out of the tower and ran off. You don't know where you are.'

"We're going to make Natasha's baked apple like we agreed,” Sam says. “You are going to stay right there in that chair while we do it. If you need some equipment or ingredient, I’d like you to ask for it. Try using the words ‘I want’ in any communication method you choose. Ask, even if I wander away to do something else. Does that sound like something you can do?”

It sounds difficult. Both for himself and for Sam. Why would Sam want to go running around getting things for him, when Matt can do it himself? He gives him a dubious look.

“How about we try it?” Sam asks. “You’re getting better at asking things, but I think you still need some practice.”

Matt nods slowly, trying to squash his distaste at making Sam do all the hard work. ‘I want,’ he signs, then finger-spells ‘oven on.’

“I’ll be happy to do that for you.” Scrape of chair as Sam gets up. Footsteps over to the oven, then a humming sound as it turns on. “Anything else I can help you with Matt?” He asks like he doesn’t mind.

Matt asks him to get the apples, the baking dish, and the ingredients they need to fill them. Once Sam walks away while Matt’s figuring out how to phrase his next request. That’s difficult. Sam said he’s supposed to ask even if he wanders away, but Sam’s talking to Bucky. He doesn’t want to ruin their conversation by asking for something. It’s a heart racing few minutes of indecision and anxiety before Sam puts him out of his misery by suggesting Matt wave to get someone’s attention when he wants something.

“I’m not comfortable letting you use a knife right now,” Sam says as he walks back to the table with the requested paring knife. “So what are you going to do?”

Hesitantly Matt makes the sign for ‘help me.’

“Sure.” A smile in Sam’s voice. “I can do that.”

***

Matt sits on the rough wood of the pew of the church. Scrapes his feet back and forth over the concrete floor to hear the sound it makes. “Maybe God’s punishing me.”

Lucky’s happy panting slows down as Father Lantom stops fussing over him. “Why do you say that?”

They’re alone in the church. Foggy waiting outside with Marci. The xanax he took for court that day has worn off, leaving him shaky. “I remembered something last night. While they were - sometimes I screamed. They tried to stop me sometimes, but not always. There was an apartment building. I didn’t know if they could hear me, so I screamed for help as loud as I could.” He remembers Baseball Bat laughing at that. Saying _‘No one’s coming. You think you’re the first bitch we’ve broken in? No one around here’s deluded enough to give a fuck, apart from you.’_ “There was an old woman watching television. I heard her complain about crackheads and turn up the volume. A kid asked a man who was screaming, and the man said it was some idiots messing about. He told the kid not to worry. That it would stop soon. My senses were messed up because of my head and everything. So I wasn’t sure until I asked Brett today, but he confirmed it. No one called the police. They ignored it.”

Father Lantom’s heart-rate increases, but there’s only a little shake to his voice. “What does that have to do with you thinking God’s punishing you?”

“I listened to screams for years before I tried to do anything about them.” Guilt gnaws at him. “Even before my hearing enhanced I could hear the neighbours screaming and crying through the paper thin walls of our apartment. ‘So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin.’ Those people needed help and I did nothing. So when I needed help they did nothing.”

Silence for a long moment filled with Father Lantom’s fast heartbeat. “Why did you become a lawyer?”

Matt blinks, caught off guard at the change in subject. “My dad didn’t want me to fight. I thought it would be a good way to help people without using my fists.”

“And if you were out picking fights every time someone screamed, could you guarantee you would be a lawyer right now? Could you guarantee you’d be able to help all the people you managed to help through that?”

“No.” The words come out as a whisper. Law school was hard. Passing the bar was even harder. Maybe he could’ve helped a few more than he did though.

“There are many ways to do the right thing Matthew,” Father Lantom says softly. “And while some of my more stone hearted clergymen might disagree, I refuse to believe that God would punish anyone like that.”

“I keep a record of the apartments I pass on my patrols. The ones with hitting and crying inside. It’s nearly seven weeks since it happened, and today is the first day I realised I needed to tell someone about them.” They’d stopped at Brett’s house on the way from court to the church. He’d used the computer to give him a list, and Brett gave him a number to message if he heard anything else. He’d also contacted Clint about Melvin and Betsy. It’s strange to trust their safety to someone else when it was he who promised to protect them. “So what am I doing that’s right? I’m ignoring them again.”

“You’re recovering.” Clink of ceramic against concrete as Father Lantom sets his latte down. “Moses was much like you. When he lead his people he wanted to do everything by himself. Then he received some very wise advise. His father in law told him ‘This work is too heavy for you, you cannot handle it alone.’ So Moses did the sensible thing and got people to help him. There’s nothing wrong with accepting help.”

“If I was helping that might be true.” Matt shakes his head. “But I’m not.”

“It’s good to do what’s right. It’s good to carry other’s burdens.” Movement of fur as Father Lantom returns to petting Lucky. “But first we must carry our own load. If you don’t rest and recover you’ll never be well enough to help people like you wish to. Whether that be in the court, in a back alley, or by some other method. That’s your priority now. Everything else can be taken on when you’re ready for it.”

“What if I’m never ready for it?” The words come out small.

“Then you’ll contribute in a different way.” Shifting as Father Lantom leans forward. “This world has people who can’t contribute in a traditional way. But they can still put a smile on another’s face. Or enjoy the life they were given. Their lives have no less value than anyone else's. We can all do what we can, and no more.”

***

"Kaboom," Natasha says in a deadpan voice. Sound of the toy car's wheels spinning as she lifts it. "My stealth vehicle contained a nuclear device. The dinosaurs are extinct once more. Let's hope it's more permanent this time."

The stiff mattress of the hospital bed shifts as Clint bounces on it. "Tasha! They're not dinosaurs. They're Hydra. You gotta at least try to play right."

Matt sits on the best beside Natasha, listening with curiosity. He'd never understood playing pretend as a child. It wasn't something his dad encouraged. At the orphanage he'd listened to kids playing with a mix of derision and jealousy. Baby stuff, he'd thought. Not something for determined people like him and his dad to mess around with.

Foggy softened his view on that. Foggy changed his view on a lot of things. Foggy plays pretend with ease. He hosts giant games of space pirates or princesses, or whatever the Nelson children decide is the cool new thing that holiday. He spins narratives that Matt can't begin to follow. He slips on the skins of different characters just to make Matt laugh.

It's strange to hear other adults who play so easily.

An exaggerated movement of one of Clint's hands. One of the dinosaurs, he guesses. He doesn't know which one. Petrie, Little Foot, or Ducky. A high pitched voice that only sounds vaguely like Clint. "You'll never take me alive!"

A sound of a gunshot escapes Natasha's lips. "Well, that solves that problem."

Strangled sound from Clint. Lurching movements of his arm. Fake groans of pain. "I see a white light. Tell my mother I love her. I want a snazzy funeral. Lots of octopi." The hand stills with a final dramatic sound.

Movement from Clint's other hand. A different voice. Supposed to be female? "He didn't say the 'cut off one head' speech. I thought that was in the contract?"

A deeper version of Clint's voice. "Dude, we can lodge a complaint _after_ we escape the scary stealth vehicle with high powered rifles."

"Gotcha," Clint's female voice says calmly, before breaking into high pitched panicked screaming intermixed with "Oh my God we're gonna die! I haven't even taught little Timmy how to hate everyone yet. We're still working on little old ladies."

Clint's footsteps quickly retreat from the bedside. Clint's deeper voice weepily reminisces about how much he'll miss the monthly meetings on how to be an asshole. It continues until the female voice tells him to "Get it together man. We're out of range."

Natasha's finger taps the back of his hand. He turns it over. Plastic placed on it. The car. "You know what to do."

Nervousness mixes with excitement in his stomach. He slinks off the bed, toeing carefully over the curled up Lucky. Lines up the car with where he judges Clint's hands to be. Presses down and pulls it back.

"She's activated the new Daredevil guiding system," Clint's female sounding voice squeaks.

"Cars have wheels." The hand that moves when Clint makes his deep voice jumps closer to the other. A lot of violent movement. "How could you forget that cars have wheels?!"

Matt lets go.

Skidding of rubber tires against floor. The sound zooms towards Clint's hands.

Clint's female voice is calm and sinister. "Cut off one head and-" Violent bump of plastic against plastic as the two dinosaurs go flying. An exaggerated dying noise.

Natasha's breathing sounds happy. It's nice to hear it.

The door opens. Marci, Foggy, and Jessica's footsteps walk inside the hospital room.

"Matt, Jessica wanted to talk to you. Says you haven't been answering her messages." Foggy's footsteps stop in the centre of the room. A smile appears in his voice. "What have you guys been up to?"

Nothing but seriousness in Natasha's voice. "Stopping a Hydra plot to steal critical material." Sloshing of water.

Shuffling as Clint gets up from the floor. His footsteps walk to Natasha's bedside. The sloshing of water decreases. He steadies her cup of water. "You really need a sippy cup right now."

She huffs. "I might need one right now Barton, but you always need a sippy cup."

"Uh huh." Sound of fabric moving as Foggy crosses his arms over his chest. "Critical material?"

"Baked apples have a high iron content," Natasha says, sounding like she's daring someone to challenge her. "I need to replenish my iron levels. So they're critical."

"So you've been playing games?" Frustration creeps into Jessica's voice. "Didn't you get any of mine or Karen's messages Murdock?"

"Chill Jones." Foggy's muscles tense, causing his breathing to change its sound. "He knows she's upset, but he's pretty upset too. He doesn't want to contact her yet, that's fine."

"Everything's always fine to you, isn't it Nelson? Sunshine and daisies. Well asshole, it's not fine. When my friend tries to drown herself in a bottle of tequila, that's not fine."

Marci snorts. "Says the alcoholic."

"I can handle it." A lot of frustration in Jessica's voice. Anger? It's getting close to anger. "She can't. She was doing good until this guy decided to cut off all contact because she helped him."

Frustration in Foggy's voice too. "You know it's not like that."

"I know that one word from Murdock could jolt her out of this stupid emotional hole she's wallowing in!"

"Why don't we all take a deep breath?" Clint asks from Natasha's bedside.

"And you can't just waltz in here and force him to do that. It has to be his choice." Movement as Foggy shakes his head. "If I knew this was what you had in mind, I never would've let you near him."

"Because that's all this is about to you, isn't it?" Jessica's words are shaped by gritted teeth. "Hiding him from every fucking thing. This never would've happened if you'd told him Karen was planning to watch it back when she first mentioned I needed a second pair of eyes."

Foggy knew? Matt sinks closer to Lucky. The dog licks his fingers.

Marci's heels click towards the Jessica and Foggy. "This really isn't helping."

"Jones. Foggy. You need to leave." Steel in Natasha's voice, despite the wavering weakness. "Argue someplace else."

The anger drops from Foggy and Jessica's breathing.

"Sure." Tightness in Jessica's voice. Sharp crash of leather against plastic. She kicks the car as she walks towards the door out of the hospital room. "Whatever."

Snap of plastic against plaster. Shattering sound as most of the interlocked pieces seem to fall apart. The snap sound is bad. Something broke.

Something inside Matt breaks at the same time.

Anger boils through him. It's like he's burning from the inside out. His fists clench. Before his mind can catch up with what's happening, he's across the room. He barrels into Jessica. Crash as she hits the wall. Gasp as the air is knocked from her lungs.

"Matt!" Foggy sounds shocked.

It doesn't cut through the fog of fury that's settled over him. Dodging her attempt to grab him, he punches her in the side. Not as hard as the anger clawing at his chest wants him to hit. He can't hit her that hard. Not even after she ruined everything.

Arms grip around his waist from behind. Foggy's heartbeat. He lets himself be pulled away from Jessica's shocked breathing. "Matt. Matty breathe. You're fine."

He can't breathe. His skin's on fire. Pins and needles travel up and down his arms and legs. "I hate you!" He shouts at Jessica so loud it feels like the words tear apart his lungs.

Surprised noise from Foggy. The arms around him loosen. A quiet bark and scraping at his legs as Lucky tries to get his attention.

Spinning out of Foggy's grasp, Matt snatches up the toy car from where he heard it hit the wall, then pushes past the security guard in the doorway to run away. He still can't breathe.

***

"Pretty cool up here, huh?" Nerves in Clint's voice.

Sometimes it can feel like he's trapped by all the sounds in the city. Like they're piling in on him. Crushing him. Up here on the roof it's different. Things are more uniform and spread out. They come from less directions. They're further away. Even the sounds of the hospital are less scary up here.

Keeping the toy car close to his chest with one hand, he moves the other over the edge of the roof. Feels the vast difference in air currents that marks roof and long drop.

"I brought the rest of the pieces of your car," Clint says, too casual. "Thought we could try putting them together. See if it's broke or not. C'mon let's set up away from the edge."

Matt follows the man's footsteps to a low concrete wall close to the door to the roof. Plastic against concrete as Clint put his pieces down. Sitting on the concrete, Matt places the ruined car next to them and starts scanning the pieces with his fingers.

Clint's heartbeat slows down. Relieved. He's too warm. Out of breath. Did he run up here after Matt? "So, good news. You talked to Jessica. That's huge progress. Though, should I be offended? It seemed like things were progressing very straight forward for a while. You talk while Bucky's in the room. Then you talk to Bucky. Then the same for Steve. Then you start talking to Sam. You talk in front of me. I thought for sure I was gonna be the next one to join the super secret gets to talk with Matt club."

Most of the anger is gone, leaving him empty. He slots the pieces of the car together with practised ease. It’s made to be taken apart and put together. Like a 3d puzzle. Tony said he thought he’d like it better that way.

“You want to talk about what happened?” The nerves are back in Clint’s voice.

It’s cold high up here. The concrete wall is rough beneath him. All the pieces that make up the car slot together apart from two. One is badly dented, a spiderweb of cracks spreading out from one of the sides. The other is snapped almost in half. He lays them down carefully beside the car. “I hate Jessica.”

Clint’s heart jumps. Surprise. “I’d hate her too. It’s a pretty sweet car. Good thing Tony can fix it, right?”

Matt shakes his head. He can’t. “It won’t be the same.”

“I get it. I’m super attached to all my stuff too. Like I have this Walkman and it broke. Kept skipping. So I took it to Tony, and his response was to say I should get an mp3 player. And I’m like no way man. It’s my stuff, y’know. It’s important to me. But he’s a lot better now. He went to therapy, and I went to therapy. We talked. Which was apparently what we should’ve done from the start. I don’t know bro. This stuff is complicated. Tell him you want it how it was, and he’ll do his best to make that happen.”

“It can’t be how it was.” Matt pulls his legs onto the concrete, wrapping his arms around his knees. That anger bubbles up again. “Jessica _broke_ it.”

Lucky’s heavy breathing climbs up the stairs. Foggy’s behind it. Not long before their footsteps step onto the roof. Foggy sounds out of breath. “What was he doing up here?”

“We’re talking.” A goofy sounding grin in Clint’s voice. “Out loud.”

“Neat.” Foggy’s footsteps move closer. Fabric shifting as he crouches next to the car. “Ouch. Poor car. Don’t worry Matty. Tony can fix it. Looks like he just needs to replace a couple pieces.”

Another shake of his head. They don’t understand. “Can’t be fixed. It’s broke.”

“I think we’re in one of his circley things.” Wide movement from Clint. Tracing a circle? “Where he gets stuck on the same topic.”

“OK bud. We can work this out.” Foggy rubs his arm. “Why can’t Tony fix it?”

“It’s broke. No one can fix it.” He buries his head in his arms. “It won’t be the same.”

Plastic against concrete as Foggy looks at the pieces. “Is that so bad if it’s different? It’ll still be good.”

It won’t be good. Matt shakes his head.

“Come on buddy.” Foggy nudges his arm the same way Lucky nudges him. “You’ve got to give me more than that. Why don’t you want it to be different?”

“It should be how it was.” Matt’s arm tightens around his knees. Anger mixes with the thick fog in his head. Everything’s kind of muddled. Things have been muddled a lot lately. “It’ll be worse now. It won’t be good. It won’t be the same. It’ll be horrible.”

Sudden movement from Clint. Shuffling as he almost falls off the wall. “Matt. Are we talking about the car?”

The same surprise pattern to Foggy’s heart. “Matty, are we talking about the car, or are we talking about Karen?”

He shrugs. He doesn’t know.

***

Matt puts the dinosaurs away.

He likes carrying around Petrie in his satchel in case Clint needs him. Foggy lets him, but before he goes to bed Petrie needs to be put away in the middle drawer of the coffee table along with the other dinosaurs with pointy bits. The dinosaurs with pointy bits can only be taken out in the communal lounge when someone else is there, and have to stay on the communal floor.

Matt doesn’t mind the rules. They’re there to keep him safe. And it’s nice to have clear guidelines he can follow that will make Foggy happy. Sometimes it feels like he’s always doing the wrong thing. At least he knows this isn’t wrong.

He places the dinosaurs one by one, right at the back of the middle drawer, grouping them together tightly. Petrie goes at the back. Little Foot and Ducky would go there too, but he gets to keep those two in his satchel. Then Spike with his dented spikes, then the rest. Cera stands in front of the group, facing outwards. Finally the boxing pad lays over them at an angle. Blocking them from the view of anyone opening the drawer. Hand wrappings are used to stuff any openings he can feel in the pad barrier.

He’s not sure why they have to be put away this way. Just that it feels right.

“Looks like Jessica was right about the drinking,” Foggy says from the couch behind him. “I can’t even read some of these.” Humming in his hands. The small computer.

Sam’s crouched by Steve’s legs. A little behind and to the side of Matt. He’s still. Like he’s watching closely. Or maybe he’s watching Tony and Bucky play some kind of speed programming game on the television. It’s hard to tell.

“Here’s a coherent one,” Foggy says. “’I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’ Does that sound like Karen doesn’t like you anymore?”

Fiona helped him get to the bottom of his feelings. He’s angry at Jessica because he thinks she broke his relationship with Karen by getting her to watch the video. He thinks that means she won’t want to be his friend anymore.

They say that’s a cognitive distortion. Thinking he can read Karen’s mind, and thinking he can predict the future. It’s still difficult to see why it’s not true.

The car is fixed, with two brand new pieces that feel the same as the last ones. It’s covered with people’s names that he can feel, but Foggy says he can’t see. Each is in their own writing. Pepper, Foggy, Tony, Bruce, Clint, Steve, Bucky, Sam, and Jarvis who used the bots to do his in perfect print. There’s a space for Natasha and Karen. More spaces where he can add other names.

Matt places the car carefully in the treasure box Natasha gave him. Moving the pom balls so it sits near the bottom of the cardboard box. Then he brushes the pom balls over the car, covering it. It has to be completely covered, then the top has to be folded closed. It needs to be secure.

It’s only when Foggy sighs that Matt realises he didn’t answer.

“Hey Matt?” Shuffling as Sam moves to the coffee table. “Can we play a game before you go to bed? You can say no.”

Sam hadn’t reminded Matt he could say no when they’d played the asking for things game while making Rose Turkish Delight. He’d ended up hitting the counter while water was boiling on the stove, which Sam said was unsafe because Matt can be unpredictable when angry. After some time to cool off, throwing ice, and a short guided meditation, they’d finished the Turkish Delight. Coating the jellies in cornflour and icing sugar was the best part.

Matt shrugs. He doesn’t care.

“Could you use your dinosaurs to create your world right now?”

Matt frowns. Signs ‘I don’t understand.’

“Use them to show me the people important in your life right now.” Tap of wood as Sam taps the coffee table. “You could put them up here?”

A game. He’s been playing a lot of them lately. Fiona thinks he’s been dissociating on some level most of the time since Natasha was shot. Karen admitting she watched the video made it worse. Today is the worst of all. Games are easier to engage in than words when he’s like this. It takes a while to remember to open the drawer with the dinosaurs in. By the time he does Sam’s footsteps make their way back to the coffee table. He hadn’t noticed him leaving.

“You can use the Jenga blocks to divide them if you want to. You don’t have to use them. Do what seems natural. There are no wrong answers.” Cardboard against wood as Sam places them on the coffee table. Fabric shuffling as he sits on the carpet near Matt. “Remember. You can stop if you change your mind and don’t want to do this. And if you don’t want to do this in front of the others we can go to a different room.”

Tony and Bucky sound caught up in their video game. Foggy makes no noise. Probably watching. Sound of pencil gliding across paper from Steve.

Uncovering the dinosaurs, Matt places Cera on the coffee table.

“Who’s that?”

Thinking for a moment, Matt points at himself. He’s not sure how to do this, but Sam said there were no wrong answers. He just needs to place the dinosaurs on the table. One for every person important to him. He reaches into the satchel and places Ducky behind Cera.

“What about that one?”

“Foggy,” Matt whispers.

Karen (Red Claw the T-Rex) goes next to Foggy. Steve (Little Foot) goes on Foggy’s other side. Bucky (Sue the Supersaurus) goes right by Steve. Clint (Petrie) close to Bucky. All the rest are close together, but a little apart from Karen. Sam (rooter the scolosaurus), Tony (the iron from the monopoly set Sam brings for extra pieces), Pepper (the top hat from the monopoly set), Lucky (the dog from the monopoly set), Natasha (Fast Biter the velocoraptor), Bruce (Spike), and Jarvis (Mr Thicknose the Pachyrhinosaurus). Clarie (the wheelbarrow from the monopoly set) goes next to Karen and Foggy.

Father Lantom (Ruby the oviraptor) stands apart from the first group. Then there’s a last group placed on the other side of the first one. Anna (the thimble from the monopoly set), Ned (the car from the monopoly set), and Candy (Mo the Ophthalmosaurus) goes there.

He places Jenga blocks around the groups as walls. It seems right somehow. Only when they’re all tightly packed in their groups behind the walls there’s something missing. He adds another layer to the Jenga walls. That’s better. Once it’s taller than all the figures he adds a roof. That makes something ease in his stomach. He doesn’t like the thought of the figures out in the open and vulnerable. He keeps adding Jenga blocks, thickening the defences until there are no more blocks left.

“He plays like Bruce,” Tony says, jolting him out of his trace. A note in Tony’s voice he can’t interpret. It doesn’t sound happy.

Matt turns his face towards Sam. Did he do something wrong?

Sam doesn’t sound mad. “Can I take a picture of this. To show Fiona?”

Matt nods. Fiona talks to Foggy, Sam, Steve, and Bucky about his treatment, except for the parts he doesn’t want to share. Jarvis is allowed to watch his sessions and keeps recordings of it in a secure area. The AI is good at reminding Matt of things Fiona says he needs to work on. He’s also starting to record when Matt talks to Lucky about what happened during the attack. That way he can send the recordings to Fiona and Olivia if he chooses to.

A click as Sam takes the picture. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but could you tell me about it?”

What is there to tell?

Cloth against plastic as Sam puts his phone away. “They all look pretty snug in their blocks. What do you imagine they’re feeling in there?”

It’s a complicated question. His mind tries to push through the fog to analyse all the different reasons Sam’s asking that before he remembers he’s not supposed to censor his words so much. He and Fiona practised that today, playing speed word association. “Safe,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” No judgement in Sam’s voice. Shifting of carpet as the man leans back casually. “What’s the triceratops doing? Why isn’t he safe with the others?”

Cera stands in front of the middle block. She’s the only one not hidden away. “They need - they need a guard.”

“Sensible.” A frown in Sam’s voice. “But why don’t the others help him out?”

The thought of opening up those blocks and leaving the dinosaurs vulnerable makes his stomach churn. He’s not sure why. “They need to be safe.”

“And the triceratops doesn’t?”

Matt shakes his head. He wishes the fog would lift so he could understand why this is so important. He’s not supposed to be acting like this, is he? He can’t remember.

“OK.” Calm in Sam’s voice. Friendliness too. Like they’re playing this game together. “So help me understand this. Why do they need to be safe if the triceratops doesn’t?”

“They’re important.”

“Is the triceratops important?”

Matt shakes his head.

Change in heartbeats around him. Everyone’s breathing but Sam’s takes on upset. Why? Is he doing something wrong?

“Looks like Karen’s pretty important,” Sam says. “She’s safe under the blocks with Foggy and the others.”

A nod. Karen’s important.

“Are you mad at Karen?”

Matt nods. She shouldn’t have seen the video.

“Do you hate her?”

A rapid shake of his head. He doesn’t hate her. He doesn’t like what she did, but he doesn’t hate her.

“Right now she thinks you hate her. I know you don’t. You know you don’t. But she doesn’t know that. How about you send her a message. You don’t have to forgive her, but you can let her know you don’t hate her. How does that sound?”

“What if-” it takes a while for the whispered words to come back. “What if she doesn’t want me to?” What if that makes everything worse and she leaves? What if she’s already left? What if he messages her, and she answers saying she never liked him anyway? She’s just been putting up with him since the video. What if she says yes, I still want to be your friend, then every time they meet she sounds angry and put upon until one day she explodes about everything she’s ever disliked about him?

“She wants you to buddy,” Foggy says from behind him. “Trust me on that.”

“I know communication’s difficult for you right now,” Sam says. “You can say something really simple. It doesn’t matter what.”

Matt holds out a hand toward Foggy for the small computer. Plastic placed in his hand. It takes a while to remember how to send a message. What he sends is simple. ‘Hi.’

A reply comes through seconds later. ‘Hi.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a recipe for baked apple = http://www.simplyrecipes.com/recipes/baked_apples/
> 
> And one for rose Turkish delight = http://www.goodtoknow.co.uk/recipes/294150/Rose-Turkish-Delight
> 
> The exercise Sam uses at the end is one commonly used in Sandplay therapy. He's come across this but doesn't have training in it, so gets a few things not quite right. For instance when you do ask questions (and sometimes you don't), it's important not to use judgmental language, even positive language, least you influence them to want to change their creation. I've even heard sandplay therapists suggest not using the word 'why' as this can seem judgemental. 
> 
> And always, I'm not a therapist, so I do get things wrong. Expect mistakes despite research and sources.


	41. Chapter 41

Friday morning, Steve leads Matt away from the men, their breaths tainted with upset.

If Matt could lecture people as effectively as Steve could, his work as Daredevil would’ve been a lot easier. He’d heard them during their jog, harassing a woman walking through the park. A few words from Steve and they were scuffing their shoes on the path like school boys, apologising to the woman in nervous voices.

The first time he’d heard someone who needed help he’d dragged along Bucky. That turned out to be a bad idea. Bucky managed to intimidate the boys into letting the cat go, but every order for Bucky and Matt to ‘leave us the fuck alone’ made the man’s heart speed up with fear. Now he either messages Steve or Sam, or grabs one of them if they’re close by.

Matt grips Steve’s elbow with one hand, not the guide rope they use for jogging. His other hand flaps by his side. He’s getting better being in the presence of strangers, but any kind of conflict still makes him want to curl up and hide or hit everything.

The woman’s footsteps walk on the other side of Steve, away from the men. Her heart jumps. Surprise. “What’s wrong with him?”

Steve’s voice takes on the same tenseness it did when talking to the men. “Nothing is wrong with him. It’s called stimming. It’s a method that helps him cope with stress.”

“Oh.” Curiosity in her voice. “Don’t you get embarrassed? It looks a little weird.”

“That’s an incredibly ablest thing to say.” All Steve’s muscles seem to tense. Disappointment in his voice. “Would you ask a guy using a wheelchair if he gets embarrassed using it because it looks weird? Would you say someone who’s deaf can’t sign in public because it looks weird? Just because someone has different needs from you doesn’t give you the right to judge them.”

The woman’s heart goes almost as fast as it did when the men were bothering her. “I’m sorry.”

Movement as Steve shakes his head. “It’s not me you have to apologise to.”

“I’m sorry,” The woman says again, presumably to Matt this time. Scuffing of the concrete path as she backs up. “I’m just going to go. Thanks again for helping me back there.”

Her heart beats too fast to tell if she means any of it.

***

“Come on buddy, eat. Please?” Wood against wood as Foggy shuffles his chair closer to Matt’s.

Matt sits on the kitchen chair with his knees tucked to his chest. Arms squished between his legs and stomach so he won’t be tempted to stim. It takes every bit of self control not to start rocking or humming. About four weeks into the Zoloft it’s definitely starting to work. There’s no way he’d be able to face court and the shouting crowds every day this week without it. But it has limits.

Every now and then Lucky whines and tries to lick him. Right now it doesn’t help.

“Tada!” Tony shouts, walking off the elevator. “One new and improved therapy jacket. Well, two actually. The other is a stylish sky blue hoodie. So now you have smart, and you have casual. Don’t thank me. Wait, why aren’t you thanking me?”

Clinking of ceramic as Steve gathers everyone’s bowl but Matt’s. Darkness in his voice. “Someone told Matt they think his hand-flapping looked weird. Now he’s stopping himself from stimming and he’s too tense to eat.”

Tony scoffs. His footsteps stop near Matt. “So what if it looks weird. We’re all weird. Are you trying to break from the ranks Murdock?”

“It doesn’t look weird Tony,” Bucky says sharply. “It makes him look relaxed.”

“Well you could definitely use some relaxing right now pup.” Cloth against his back as Tony puts the jacket over his shoulders. “Some serious massage and possibly some things I’ve been told to avoid saying around you level relaxing. Here. Put that on.”

It’s hard to move. It’s harder to move without rocking or flapping. It’s like every atom of air around him has turned into a knife. Moving makes them scrape against his skin. It’s too much. The movement. The smells. The sounds. He can’t find the sleeve.

“How about you take your xanax Matt?” Sam asks, not for the first time. “We have to leave soon anyway. You’ll only be taking it a little early.”

One of his hands rests on his knee. The other searches for a sleeve and can’t find it. Noises around him stab at his ears. Curling up tight he bites his hand. The pain overshadows the chaos in his head so he can breathe.

Jump of Foggy’s heartbeat. Foggy’s hand grips his arm, trying to pull it away from his mouth. “Matt! Stop. This is what happens when you don’t take care of yourself. It all builds up and you explode. Remember, like Fiona showed us with the cup?”

He remembers. PTSD means he can only take on a little extra stress before he overflows. That’s why it’s important for him not to take on too much, to rest, and to take part in activities that reduce his tension and anxiety. That knowledge doesn’t make the world any easier to deal with once he lets Foggy force his hand away from his teeth. Shivers wrack his through his body. It feels like everything around him is crushing him. His next breath comes out wet.

“Hey Fog.” Concern in Bucky’s voice. “You can’t just take something away. You gotta add something too.”

“Thanks for reminding me Buck.” Foggy’s arms wrap around him. “Come on Murdock. Deep pressure.”

Dropping his feet to the floor, Matt lets himself be hugged. Deep pressure is a firm hug. Not that different from Foggy’s usual hugs. Matt’s sensory issues seem to get worse and better in waves that increase in frequency the more stress he’s under. He’s had a few bad moments since Natasha getting shot, so Fiona talked to an expert in Sensory Processing Disorder. Deep pressure and proprioceptive input are two of the things that help with sensory over-responsiveness which is a condition Fiona thinks might cause the same kind of issues that his super-senses do. When he gets overloaded with sensory information it trips natural danger alarms in his brain because it’s not designed to deal with so much input. Deep pressure and proprioceptive input travels to the same parts of the brain as arousal and emotion and can diminish activity there, overriding the danger signals.. It also helps with his anxiety for the same reasons.

It’s easier to accept hugs when he can pretend they’re for legitimate medical need. Squeezing a arm through Foggy’s tight grip, he buries one side of his head into the man’s shoulder, and covers the other with a hand.

Foggy’s arms still around him. “Sensory?”

Matt nods.

Tony’s fast footsteps move around the kitchen area. Smell of fruit. Probably making one of his smoothies. “No wonder if you stopped regulating sensory input.”

“We’ve got fifteen minutes before we have to leave.” Foggy’s arms move from around him. “Palms toward me.”

Matt’s hands shake as he holds them out. Foggy’s hands press against them. He plants his feet on the floor and pushes hard, Foggy providing resistance. The proprioceptive input in his muscles and joints and deep pressure against his palms helps.

“Think you can take your pills now?” Steve asks.

He doesn’t feel like he’s going to burst out crying anymore, but he shakes his head. Makes a disgusted face.

Bucky’s uneven footsteps move over to the large couch where the backpack he takes jogging and the satchel are. Sound of a zip opening as he moves objects from one bag to the other. Matt prefers to take the satchel to court. It’s more professional. “You can’t take the taste right now?”

Matt nods, wincing at the idea of swallowing a pill while he’s still so sensitive.

“We can try the straw technique.” Foggy lowers his hands from Matt’s. “Tony, could you?”

“One chocolate banana shake coming right up,” Tony says. “Heavy on the chocolate and extra thick.”

The straw technique is another method used for sensory over-responsiveness. An exercise for his mouth. The effort used to suck the thick liquid through the straw decreases the mouths sensitivity. It helps him manage more tastes and textures.

If Stick helped him deal with his sensory issues with these kind of methods, training would’ve been a lot nicer.

“Wanna put your jacket on pal?” Bucky’s uneven footsteps move back to the table. Fabric against wood as he hangs Matt’s satchel on the back of his chair. “It’ll help.”

It takes a little longer than it should to shrug on the jacket, do it up, then inflate it. The pressure around his chest, shoulders, and back feels even more like a hug than it did before. It helps him feel more solid against all the sensations around him. Less like the air is going to crush him. When Tony’s fast footsteps approach and there’s a clunk of plastic set down on wood, Matt signs ‘thank you.’ Both for the smoothie and the jacket.

“Don’t mention it,” Tony says dismissively, moving back to the kitchen.

“Smoothie is straight in front of you. Twelve O’Clock.” Patience in Foggy’s voice, even after everything Matt’s done to make this morning difficult. “Pill box is to the left of it. Take them when you’re ready. Remember what time you’ll be back?”

Steve went over his schedule for the day while Matt was still refusing to eat. “Five thirty,” Matt whispers as his fingers find the straw. It’s a silly straw with lots of loops. “With Natasha.”

“Then you’ll have the whole weekend before you go back to court.” Fabric shifting as Bucky leans towards him. “Concentrate on that, OK?”

Matt nods.

***

It’s the fifth morning in a row he’s dealt with this, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

The therapy jacket holds him in a firm hug. The headphones block out sound. Lucky is ready by his side. Foggy, Marci, Steve, and Sam unclip their seat-belts as they ready to leave the car with him. Stark’s security should already be waiting outside the car like they do every morning.

The crowd stirs outside, waiting for him.

The first five minutes are always the worst. Stepping out into open space. Being pummelled by air currents as all the reporters surge as close as they can, yelling questions. Freezing in place like he always does. This time it’s Steve who puts an arm around his back and coaxes him into taking the first horrible step into that sea of noise, then the next, then the next.

Concentrate on one thing. Block everything else out. That’s one piece of advice Stick gave him before throwing him into sensory hell after sensory hell and leaving it to himself to figure out how to put it into action.

He focuses on the steps up to the courthouse, counting each one as he finds it.

“Mr Murdock!” A female voice shouts. “What do you say to those who claim you’re faking your condition to get sympathy?”

Thirty steps to go.

The voices overlap each other, but occasionally one breaks free. “What do you think the outcome of your trial will be?” “What was your reaction to Dennis Short’s indictment?” “How long is the trial expected to last?” “Will you testify at the upcoming trials?” “Do you have anything to say to Captain Darius of NYPD after his statement on Thursday?” “What do you say in response to Short’s claim that the sex was consensual?” “Adam Thomas told the press you attacked him first, and that the actions he took were in retaliation. What’s your answer to those who claim he was justified?”

The air flow changes. Inside a large room. Tall ceiling echoing the sound-waves oddly. The doors shut most of the voices outside. They keep moving, Matt gripping Steve’s jacket tight. Lucky presses against his legs.

“Room’s ready for you Nelson,” a now familiar voice says.

Foggy sighs. “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver. Looks like we really need it today.”

“Bunch of vultures,” the man says in a agreement before a click of a closing door locks the voices away.

Steve’s large hands rub his upper arms. The pressure is good. “Deep breath. It’s over. You made it.”

Matt concentrates on slowing down his breathing. Quivers travel through his body. The xanax, headphones, and therapy vest are good but nothing ever makes walking through that crowd easy. The small room smells like paper, ink, plastic, and wood polish. Same as always. The man - a janitor he thinks - found them huddled against a wall trying to help Matt calm down on the first day and offered to find a spare room close by. Since then they go to the room to calm down before going to where they’re supposed to wait for court to start.

It’s good. A lot better than listening to the curious whispers of people watching as he climbs down from a freak out.

“Skittles says it’s my fault,” Matt whispers. It’s not the first time he’s heard that one. Dirt and Cocaine haven’t spoken to the media, but Skittles hasn’t stopped since he was indicted on the twenty-first of April, sixteen days ago. Not that he’d known that until having it yelled at him this week by reporters. Jessica’s right. Foggy and the others kept a lot of things from him.

“Thomas is an asshole.” It’s odd to hear Captain America swear so vehemently.

“They said something about Old Spice.” The quivers running through his body make the words shake. That one he hadn’t heard before. Old Spice was only indicted two days ago. Last he’d heard the man hadn’t said anything except to claim he wasn’t guilty.

Steve’s hands keep moving up and down his upper arms. He’s good at applying deep even pressure. A lot better than Bucky who still has problems being anything but gentle with Matt. “You can ask Natasha later. I’d be more comfortable if she told you.”

Matt opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. That’s a rule they decided yesterday when Matt finally persuaded them to let him know what Skittles was saying about him. For now, unless he’s in a very calm mood, only Fiona or Natasha can tell him about things like that. They know best what things he can handle hearing and when they need to stop or phrase things a different way to help him not get so upset.

Lucky’s weight leans against his legs. It helps. “Skittles says it’s my fault because I attacked them first.” Wright said that too.

Steve’s hands rest on his shoulders. Heavy but not squeezing. They’ve tried some different types of massage, and he still hates it when anyone grips his arms or touches his legs or feet. There are a lot of things he doesn’t like, but this gentle pressure is good. “Why did you attack them?”

“The girl,” Matt says. “They were going to hurt her.”

“That’s right. You attacked them for a good reason. That’s what you need to remember.”

“It can only be your fault if you make an informed decision,” Matt says obediently. He’s heard these words enough times to know them off by heart, even if applying them to himself is still difficult. “And if you don’t do it for a good reason.” Good reasons are subjective, but saving the girl counts. He didn’t know what they would do, so the only decision he made was to hit the guys to help the girl get away. Then he would’ve tied them up or incapacitated them and informed the police. Or more likely persuaded at least one of them to turn themselves and the others in at the police station. It wasn’t a good area. Unless he’d managed to get hold of one of the dedicated officers like Brett, it could take hours for any police officer to turn up.

“That’s good.” Warmth in Steve’s voice. He sounds proud. It makes something warm glow in Matt’s chest to hear it. “You’re getting it.”

“They don’t understand that.” For the first time he’s irritated on his own behalf. Steve, Fiona, and everyone make it sound so simple. For something to be someone’s fault it has to meet certain criteria. This doesn’t. So many people told him that again and again in different ways, breaking it down, using examples, helping him challenge every one of his reasons why he thinks it’s his fault. Their hearts always beat truth. “I didn’t choose that, so it can’t be my fault.” He freezes.

“That’s right Matt,” Steve says softly. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not my fault,” he whispers the words to himself. Every piece that makes up Matt Murdock has died many times over the past fifty-two days. That night in the alley. When Claire found out. When the rest of the world found out. When he realised he couldn’t just push through this trauma like the ones before. Every time he accepted help. Every time he let himself be vulnerable and no one punished him for it. Every time someone said they cared about him. When Natasha got hurt and they still insisted that wasn’t his fault. When Karen saw everything and still said she wanted to be his friend.

This death is painful like all the others. It’s a relief too. There’s still a small voice that sounds like Stick who tells him he’s wrong, but it’s quiet. Easily drowned out by the next whisper. “It’s not my fault.”

***

“And he-” Matt frowns, keeping his hands well away from the scratchy bed sheets he’s sitting on. “There was a car.”

“The tail following Pearson saw her talking to Lawrence Rowe,” Foggy translates for him. Scraping sound as he moves a chair toward Marci. “He lost him, so we sped by on the way from court to see if we could pick up the trail. It ended at a road. Turns out Matt’s bloodhound abilities have their limits.”

“I can sometimes hear from a roof,” Matt offers, playing with the satchel in his lap. “Far away. If it’s a good roof. But - uh - sometimes.”

“Not always huh?” A smile in Natasha’s voice from where she sits further up the hospital bed.

Matt shakes his head. Not always.

“We’ll consider it pal,” Bucky says from the top of the bed behind Natasha’s heartbeat. Sound of hair moving as he brushes Natasha’s. “But it sounds like something you could get obsessed by, so we gotta be careful.”

Matt nods. It’s a long shot anyway. He’d have to choose a roof of the right height in the right area. They don’t even know where the right area is. He’d have to filter through so many voices to find Baseball Bat’s. Baseball Bat would have to talk and not be behind something that might distort or cover up his voice. And even if Baseball Bat did talk where he could hear him, the chances of hearing him within all that mess of other sounds is astronomical when he’s in peak condition. Let alone when his brain is still so muddled.

“Court go OK?” Clint asks, heart speeding up a little. Worry or fear? Maybe some of the Avengers are just as worried as Matt about what might happen if he loses this case. Sound of plastic unscrewing. The smell of chemicals. Clint’s heartbeat is close in front of Natasha. Putting some kind of makeup on her.

“Prosecution ran out of things to prattle on about.” Flesh against plastic as Marci sits in the chair Foggy brought her. “They’ve rested their case. We get to present ours on Monday.”

“Marci - she-” Matt pulls his legs into a cross legged position on the end of the bed. Lets himself rock. He’s allowed. It helps him straighten the thoughts in his head. He’s not as out of it as he was the day he hit Jessica, but it’s still difficult. “She made the man cry. It was impressive.”

“I have my talents.” Marci sounds pleased. “Really he should’ve known better than to try and lie to me on the witness stand. It was too tempting to take him apart piece by piece. That’s one assault charge they’ll never be able to get a conviction for.”

Warmth by his side as Foggy perches on the bed beside him. “I don’t see how they’ll get a conviction on the resisting arrest charge after Brett’s testimony. The grievous bodily harm and a couple of the lesser assaults are more questionable, but most of the charges have to be dismissed.”

“He’s getting acquitted of all charges,” Marci says firmly. “I wouldn’t have taken on this case if I didn’t know I’d win.”

“I think you mean that we’d win.” A smile in Foggy’s voice. A beat of worry in his heart. The trial won’t last much longer. Matt’s worried about it too.

“Of course Foggy Bear.” That simpering note enters Marci’s voice. It’s as obnoxious as her flowery perfume. “I couldn’t do it without your wonderful opening speech. Or the way you made that guy admit he would’ve killed that girl if Murdock hadn’t stopped him.” She sounds a little breathless.

“And this time we know none of the jury is compromised,” Natasha says, so confident that Matt doesn’t question how she’s so sure.

Clint clucks disapprovingly. “Would you stay still. You want mascara all over your face?”

All their hearts still beat with worry.

***

“They broke my arm,” Matt whispers to Lucky as Fiona listens. “They hit me on the head. They kicked me. They hurt me a lot. You have to give consent for it to be consensual. I didn’t give consent. It wasn’t consensual.”

“I’m very proud of you right now Matt.” Fiona does sound proud. “You’re getting very good at breaking these situations down.”

Matt shifts on the couch so he’s facing Fiona’s armchair instead of Lucky. “I don’t understand. Why - um - why don’t other people understand that?” It’s not like it’s rocket science. You have to hold someone down and break their bones to force yourself on them, that’s not sex, that’s rape.

Fabric shifting as Fiona places one leg over the other. “I think most of them do. The people who asked you those questions are probably focused on selling papers. Dennis Short claiming the rape was consensual is going to get a lot of reaction precisely because people know it’s not true. The people who really believe it aren’t thinking about it closely enough or don’t have enough details to understand what happened. There’s also a mental bias I’ve come across where people can’t imagine themselves in that situation, so they think if it happened to them they’d find a way out. It’s difficult to understand how easy it is for someone to overpower you until you’ve been in that situation yourself.”

Matt reaches down to stroke Lucky’s head. It helps slow his breathing. The dog makes a grumbling noise under his hand.

“If you’re ready I’d like you to try telling me what happened that night.” Scratch of Fiona’s pen across paper. “Then maybe we could talk about Karen, and I’d like to ask you some questions before we finish today if that’s OK. Just a little test to help me understand a little more about you.”

Matt shifts warily, but he nods.

***

“That makes so much sense,” Foggy says at the same time Matt shakes his head because it makes no sense.

‘My dad was a good dad,’ he types on the small computer, British voice speaking the words to the room. Talking may be a lot easier now, but there are still situations where he needs to use his aids.

“This doesn’t mean your father wasn’t good,” Fiona explains carefully. “There are more ways to get an attachment disorder than bad parenting. Attachment is shaped in the first three years of life, but there’s evidence to show that it’s affected by events throughout your life. You for example lost your mother at a young age, lost your primary caregiver at ten, and from what Foggy tells me you don’t seem to have formed another significant attachment until meeting him at eighteen.”

Matt shakes his head. It still doesn’t make sense. ‘My dad tried hard. I had a good childhood.’

“Matty.” Foggy nudges him. “You were still a child when you lost your eyesight at nine. I roomed with you for years. I know you had nightmares about it. That and when your dad died. Remember first year of undergrad when that car backfired? You tried to brush it off, but I know you had a panic attack. And you had other nightmares. I don’t know bud, but they looked pretty bad. Your childhood wasn’t the Kodak moment you think it was.”

Matt flushes. It wasn’t that bad. Was it? ‘What does this have to do with anything?’

“I’ve said from the start that your thought patterns and past events might affect your recovery from this event. You haven’t been very open about your childhood, but you show some indications of childhood trauma. Dissociation is a very common coping strategy for children undergoing trauma. You show a lot of dissociation, which may be due to that, or may not be.” Shifting of fabric as Fiona leans forward in her armchair. “I’m not suggesting anything. All I can say at this point is you’re suffering from PTSD with associated depression, selective mutism, and your results indicate a fearful-avoidant attachment which may add a few extra dimensions to your recovery that I need to bear in mind. The good news is that there are ways to change your attachment type from insecure to earned secure attachment when you’re ready for it. I’m going to give you some information to look through on attachment issues and a condition called complex PTSD. I’m not saying you have complex PTSD. I don’t have the information yet to make that judgement, but I’d like you to be open to answering more questions in future sessions that will help me make that judgement. If you do have it, it’ll be useful to know, because that information will help me know how best to help you. Do you understand?”

Matt nods grudgingly.

***

“Listen to this Matt.” Excitement in Foggy’s voice. “These are characteristics of a fearful-avoidant attachment. Difficulty trusting others. Fear of abandonment. Feelings of unworthiness. Guarded or reserved behaviours. Insecurity. Low self esteem. Negative view of self. Tendency to blame oneself for problems in a relationship. Remind you of anyone?”

Matt sits on the edge of the pool, socks off and toes curled into the warm water. The beach ball taps against his leg. Picking it up, he tosses it back towards the sound of splashing that marks Karen. Why is this so important to Foggy?

Plastic against flesh as Karen catches it. “You’ve got to admit, it does sound a lot like you Matt.”

Rustling of Foggy’s swim trunks as he sits close to Matt. “Wants to be in a relationship, but experiences discomfort because of potential for getting hurt. Dude. This is you in a nutshell.”

Lots of splashing from the deep end of the giant pool. Clint and Kate seem to be wrestling. He concentrates on that sound instead.

“And I haven’t even got into complex PTSD yet.” Movement of water as Foggy slides his feet into the pool. “Feelings of shame or guilt. Check. Difficulty controlling your emotions. Gotta admit you’ve had issues with that. Dissociation. Helps explain a lot of things from college. Physical symptoms such as headaches, stomach aches, chest pains, dizziness. Not sure you’d tell me about those. Cutting yourself off from friends and family. You’ve definitely tried. Relationship difficulties. Oh, so many. Destructive or risky behaviour such as self harm.” Foggy clears his throat, sounding uncomfortable. “Suicidal thoughts. That ones only recent, right?”

Matt nods, dipping his toes into the pool. He hadn’t let himself consider suicide before. Giving up isn’t something his Dad or Stick would allow. And one time a nun saw the cuts while guiding him and told him exactly what would happen to his soul if he killed himself. Which ironically was one of the factors that led to the increased cutting spree that made him realise he needed to stop. Emotions aren’t very rational.

“People who repeatedly experience traumatic events may be diagnosed with complex PTSD. One of the key symptoms of complex PTSD is losing trust in people. Buddy, putting this as nicely as possible, trust doesn’t come easy to you. And I’m going to run out of hands if I try to count the number of traumatic events that I know about from your life.”

Matt leans his head against his knees. Raises three fingers. He doesn’t want to talk about this any more.

Foggy’s heart jumps. “Sure bud. Guess I’ve been going on about this for a while, huh? Hey, lets go swimming. This is the Mona Lisa of pools. Diving boards, slides, a wave machine, and I don’t think I’ve found all the underwater tunnels. You’ll love it.”

Unease churns in his stomach. Pulling his feet away from the edge of the pool he slowly shakes his head.

Puzzlement in Foggy’s voice. “What gives? You put those trunks on, right?”

Matt nods, flushing. Clint and Kate are far enough away, but Karen’s close. He opens his mouth to try and explain anyway, but no words come out.

“Hey Karen, could you?” Foggy asks with forced casualness.

Hidden disappointment to Karen’s voice. They’ve talked through his aids, but for whatever reason, his weird brain won’t let him talk out loud in front of her. He can even talk in front of Marci now, but not Karen. “Sure. I’m going to see how close I can swim to Clint before he notices.” Movement of water as she slips underneath it.

“I can’t swim,” Matt blurts out when enough time passes that Karen must be far away.

No jump in Foggy’s heartbeat. Not surprised. “No problem. And not something you need to blush so brightly about either. I bet most of the adults in Hells Kitchen can’t swim. My Mom was just really overzealous about getting me and Candy to take lessons. Wanted us to be prepared for anything. You know, just in case we accidentally fell into a river or something idiotic like that. Came in handy when they took us to the beach as kids.”

Matt shakes his head. Forces himself to take a deep breath. He can do this. “I accidentally fell into a river.”

A jump in Foggy’s heartbeat. Definitely surprised now. “What?”

“Well, it was more like on purpose, and a jump not a fall.” The words come out too fast. Tripping over each other. “It was - it was after Nobu. After Fisk. They were going to kill me so I jumped out a window. I didn’t know how to swim. I was really hurt. I kept going under, and I couldn’t sense anything. I was choking on water, and I didn’t know which way to move, or how to move.” He has to pause to breathe. “It was really scary.”

Foggy takes careful measured breaths. “Thanks for telling me.” The words sound rehearsed. “I’d have preferred if you’d told me sooner so I could help you with that. I could’ve taught you to swim in case it happened again. But what’s important is that you told me now. I’m really happy you trusted me with this. Bet it makes going in the pool seem kind of frightening.”

Matt nods. The water is a giant unknown. He can’t sense what’s under it. And when he’s the one under it, he won’t be able to sense anything.

“We’re at the shallow end of the pool.” Shifting of air as Foggy leans forward. “There are four wide steps leading down. At the bottom the water comes about knee high? Then it gradually slopes down, getting deeper. How about we sit on the steps for a bit? Then we can walk to whatever depth you feel comfortable. I’ll stay with you. I’d like me or someone else to teach you to swim at some point, but that can wait until you get used to the water.”

He’s so lucky to have a friend like Foggy. He blushes brighter. “There’s - there’s something else.”

“Yeah bud?” The pause must go on too long because Foggy’s warmth shifts closer to his side. “Hey Matty. You can tell me anything. You know that, right?”

He’s trying to know that. He grips his sweatpants, twisting the material in his hands. “The - the - on my back.” He swallows heavily. “I can still feel it. I don’t know if people can - I don’t know if-”

“If they can see it?” Slight wet in Foggy’s voice.

Matt nods, his body curling up tighter.

“Can I check?” Scrape of the tiles as Foggy shifts backward.

All the words are gone. Matt nods instead.

Cool air against his back as Foggy pushes up the compression shirt and hoodie he’d thrown on after setting Natasha up in the medical bay. A hiss of breath. “Sorry bud. I can still see it. Claire did say the infection might not make it heal neatly. But hey, it’s only been seven weeks. It could still fade.”

Matt forces his breaths deep and even. “Does it look like-” Does it look like a bite mark? Will people look at him and know what happened? Will he carry a physical reminder of what happened forever?

“To me it does,” Foggy says evenly. “But I saw it before so I might be biased. I don’t know if a stranger will recognise it.” The cold air disappears as the compression shirt lowers. “The others won’t say anything you know.”

He knows that. If Foggy tells them not to, they won’t say anything. But still. “I don’t. I don’t want them to. I don’t want them to see.” His hands shake.

“I’ll grab you a t-shirt from the changing room. It’s probably a good thing. As gorgeous as my physic is, it wouldn’t have a chance of standing out against your abs. And I’ll give the lovely Claire a message. She can ask around for a good plastic surgeon with a decent bedside manner. That is, if you want rid of it?”

Matt nods. Yes. He wants rid of it. If there was a magic pill he could take that would make it vanish, he’d down it right now. He may not be able to see it, but he can feel how different the scar tissue feels from the surrounding tissue. And everyone else would be able to see it.

Loud splash from the other end of the pool. High pitched scream from Clint, followed by laughter from Karen and Kate.

Slight smile in Foggy’s voice. “And it turns out Karen can swim pretty close without Clint seeing her. Isn’t he supposed to be called Hawkeye for a reason? Chill dude, OK. Deep breath. You want rid of it, we’ll look into how to do that. Hang tight. I’ll go get you a t-shirt.”

He doesn’t deserve a friend as good as Foggy. That’s a cognitive distortion. Filtered thinking. Seeing only the bad things about himself. He’ll talk it through with Natasha later. “Fog?”

Creaking of Foggy’s knees as he stops halfway through getting up. “Yeah Matty?”

He bites his bottom lip. He’s allowed to ask for things he wants he reminds himself. “Deep pressure?”

Jump in Foggy’s heartbeat. It’s the first time he’s asked for something like this. The hug is solid and warm. Foggy’s scent wraps around him, a little different from his lack of clothes. None of his movements suggests that he minds.

***

“I need to get back to work.” A smile in Karen’s voice. It sounds forced. Wet there too. Upset. “I had fun.” Her heart beats lie. Her shoes quickly click out of the Nerf gun room.

Quick movement as Foggy stands up. “Sam, you take my turn. I’ll be right back.” His footsteps follow Karen.

Sam sits beside Matt on the fleece blanket. Someone always has to stay close to him when the balcony doors are open. In case he gets tempted to jump. The gym level is low enough that he can hear voices below and from surrounding buildings. At first Jarvis had to help him map out the area below by helping him pinpoint the location of certain sounds he was hearing. Now he can make a pretty good guess where the noises are coming from.

It’s nice to be useful again. He might not be able to chase criminals himself right now. Too many things out there spook him, and Foggy worries it might impact his trial. But Father Lantom’s right that he can help in other ways. A store is held up by a man who claims he has a gun. The number Brett told him to contact sends a nearby pair of police officers who arrive less than five minutes after Matt’s message. A bunch of kids steal a woman’s purse, and Stark’s security catches up to them in time. A young woman he later finds out has Downs Syndrome is repeatedly harassed at work. Foggy goes to meet with her and helps her make a complaint.

Plastic against plastic as Sam throws the hoop over the plastic bottle. “I got sad. Let’s see. A time when I felt sad… Got one. My Mom had a car accident. She was fine, but this was after I lost Riley, and before I started working at the VA. I had no one but her. It hit me how easily I could lose her. I was inconsolable. She ended up having to comfort me.”

“Thanks for sharing.” Plastic against skin as Clint fiddles with a hoop from up on top of one of the ramps.

“Yeah.” Kate’s heartbeat comes from close to Clint’s. “Thanks.”

Matt nods in agreement, although his hand flaps a little at his side. It’s his turn next.

It’s a game. One Fiona suggested to get him used to talking about emotions. Four plastic bottles. Each representing an emotion. Angry, sad, scared, or happy. Whichever emotion your hoop lands nearest to is the emotion you have to talk about, naming a time when you felt that feeling.

Karen’s crying in the gym. “What did I do Foggy? When I speak to him he looks terrified. I thought I was helping when I watched the video, but I ruined everything.”

“Breathe.” Foggy takes an exaggerated breath that Karen copies. “I know it looks bad. You just need to give him some time. This hit him hard, but you guys can move past it.”

“How?” Still a lot of wet in her voice. “He can’t speak to me Foggy.” A sharp breath. “Part of me was happy that even when he couldn’t speak to anyone, he could still talk to me and you. I was grateful that he trusted me enough for that. Now he hates me.”

Footsteps as Foggy moves her further from the Nerf gun room. “Look. Getting to the bottom of what Matt’s feeling is difficult. He still finds it difficult to share stuff, and all his communication took a hit over Natasha and this business. But from what we’ve managed to pry out of him, I don’t think he hates you. He told Fiona he thinks you won’t want to be his friend anymore. He told Clint he got so mad at Jessica because he thinks she broke his relationship with you by her asking for you to look at the video. Fiona thinks the selective mutism is more to do with the video than the rape. He’s anxious around people because he’s not sure how much they know about what happened. He gets scared that they’re judging him. The moment he knows you watched the video he stops being able to talk around you. So what do you think is going on in his head?”

Realisation in Karen’s voice. “He thinks I’m judging him.”

“Bingo.” A lighter tone in Foggy’s voice. “Of course that’s only my opinion. Sometimes understanding Matt Murdock is harder than-”

Wet against his face. Gross. Grimacing he pushes Lucky away, scrubbing his face with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Matt.” Worry in Sam’s heart. “It’s your turn.”

Right. Feeling for a hoop, he tosses it in the direction of the bottles. Clint or Kate always mix up the order before his go so he can’t cheat and choose the emotion he wants. Before their go they spin around until they’re really dizzy then throw it.

“Scared,” Kate calls out.

A time when he was scared. Moving his fuzzy socks repetitively over the fleece blanket he tries to think of one that isn’t too embarrassing. His fingers tap against the small computer by his side, but he doesn’t use it. “A man attacked Karen. He was going to kill her. By the time I got to her apartment he was already hurting her. I was scared I’d be too late.”

“Thanks for sharing,” Clint, Kate, and Sam say one after the other.

“It’s my turn to take you to Ed’s bakery tomorrow,” Sam says as Clint hops down from the ramp and starts spinning in a circle. “Do you want me to ask Karen if she can come?”

“She wants to be my friend?” Matt whispers. He doesn’t want to drag her along if she doesn’t want him to.

“She said she did,” Sam confirms, sounding sure. “Why do you think she wouldn’t want to be your friend?”

Matt shrugs.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning = graphic flashback at start of this chapter.

_He’s facedown in the alleyway, and it hurts, and everyone is laughing._

_There are hands. They grip. They pull. They hit. They don’t stop. He wants to beg them to stop, but he can’t do that. He’s not allowed to beg. Someone tugs on his broken arm. The pain sets fire to his body. A scream rips from his throat._

_They laugh._

_“Gonna kill you,” he snarls. Has to stop to gasp in pain. “Gonna - gonna fucking kill you.”_

_“Move,” the one who hit him with a baseball bat says. “If he’s still running his mouth you’re not doing it right.”_

_The pain leaves. He gasps in heavy breaths that stink of sweat and anger. Feels like it’s been years since he last breathed. Hands grip his hips. Whimpering he shakes his head. More pain, faster, harder than before. Baseball Bat pants over him._

_Hands grip his face. Smell of Old Spice. “You love this, don’t you bitch?”_

_Matt pulls against the hands holding him. Tries to get away. “Let me go!” The words come out gasped and pleading. He meant them to sound like a threat._

_Laughter. More laughter. “Aw,” Old Spice croons. “He wants us to let him go.”_

_“If you didn’t want this,” Baseball Bat pants above him. “You shouldn’t have crossed me.”_

_Old Spice squeezes his face, fingers digging into his cheeks. “You’re the one who came to us. You’re the one who made this happen.”_

_“Disgusting,” the one who smells like dirt says. “What a whore.”_

_“Yeah, look at those lips.” Heavy smell of arousal from Bubblegum. Lots of warmth to his hip area. Still hard. “Bet he sucks cock.”_

_Matt tries to pull away from Old Spice’s grip, but that moves him towards Baseball Bat. No. His stomach quivers, coiling and twisting with every stab of pain. It’s too much. “You - you put anything in my mouth-” he gags. Retches. “I’ll - I’ll bite it off.”_

_“Hold him down, would you?” Couple of hard thrusts from Baseball Bat. “He’s squirming.”_

_“I thought you liked that?”_

_“Not when he’s trying to kick me you idiot.”_

_Hands push him into the ground as more hands wrench his head up. Old Spice’s fingers dig into his jaw, forcing his mouth open. No. He tries to twist out of the grip. The fingers push harder, into the hollows of his cheeks and between his teeth. It feels like he’s trying to dislocate his jaw._

_Sharp sounds of flesh against flesh in front of him. Bubblegum jacking off. Warmth right in front of him. Sometimes it grazes his lips. If he could get free he could bite, but he can’t. All the hands hold him too tightly. He can’t move._

_“He’s crying,” Old Spice says in a crooning patronising voice. Baseball Bat speeds up as if those words spurned him on._

_Pain everywhere. Hot tears down his face. He can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t do anything._

_“Look at him taking it,” someone says. He’s not sure who._

_Noise of pleasure from Bubblegum. Then there’s warmth pressed to his lips. Thick salty liquid on his tongue and face. His head yanked upwards so he can’t spit it out. Several moments of trying to and choking. A hand clicks his jaw shut. Another pinches his nose._

_Old Spice’s voice in his ear. “Swallow.”_

_He tries to shake his head. He doesn’t want to. Bile rises in his throat. But he’s choking beneath Old Spice’s hand. More tears cut down his face, red hot and burning. Baseball Bat speeds up, shoving him into Old Spice’s grip. It hurts. He can’t breathe. His throat makes the decision for him and swallows._

_It’s a while before he comes back to himself, body shaking. Baseball Bat pulling out of him. The taste and smell of cum everywhere. The hands holding him looser, like they can sense the change in him. Sound of Bubblegum zipping up. He’s allowed that. They’re all wearing clothes, while Matt’s completely naked and stinking of blood._

_Baseball Bat says something and everyone laughs._

_Bubblegum laughs the loudest. He sounds proud. “He’s a good fuck,” he says, eager. Trying to impress. “Aren’t you whore?” He pats Matt’s cheek._

_Matt snaps. Twisting out of Old Spice’s grip, he lunges. Flesh under his teeth. A scrape of bone. Snarling he wrenches his head to the side, biting down as hard as he can._

_Bubblegum screams._

_A punch to the side of his head that leaves him dazed._

_“Jesus Christ! My thumb!” Bubblegum moans. “He fucking bit my thumb off.”_

_Tang of blood in his mouth. Sweet against the salty taste of before. Laughter escapes his lips, thin and thready. He spits the chunk of flesh at Bubblegum’s feet._

_“You think this is funny bitch?” Fury in Baseball Bat’s voice. He’s shoved onto his back, callused hands tight around his throat._

_Matt keeps laughing until he passes out._

“You’re in your apartment in Avengers tower,” Jarvis tells him once he wakes up gasping for breath. “It’s two thirty-five in the morning of Saturday the 7th of May. Mr Nelson is asleep in his bedroom. Mr Wilson is asleep in the spare room. You’re safe. Everyone on your list was safe on last check.”

It takes a while to get his breathing under control. Lucky helps by licking his fingers and letting him stroke him. At one point he curls into the dog, resting his head on his side and listening to him breathe.

He still needs someone on shift at night in case he tries to harm himself after a nightmare. Foggy likes someone there while he has night terrors, because even though Matt tells him he doesn’t remember them, he doesn’t like him going through them alone. They’re trying a more hands off approach to his sleepwalking, leaving Jarvis to monitor his wanderings and keep him confined to the floor. It’s the sleepwalking nightmares they have the most problems with. The ones where he throws things at invisible threats, or tries to break down a door or wall because he’s convinced his Dad, Foggy, Karen, Natasha, Bucky, or Steve is behind it.

At least he’s getting better at calming himself down, he thinks as he swaps his sweat soaked pyjama top for a hoodie. That’s something.

“I’m awake,” he says to Jarvis, pushing himself shakily off his bed. “I’m going to- the - the-”

“The communal lounge?” Jarvis suggests softly.

Matt nods. “Yeah.” With the new safety measures in place he’s allowed down there on his own. Foggy doesn’t like it. Foggy doesn’t like him going anywhere alone, but he’s starting to grudgingly allow it.

The communal lounge smells of everyone. Sometimes that helps the shaky feeling from the nightmare go away.

***

The elevator doors whoosh open and a stranger steps off.

Matt jerks awake when the solid warmth of Lucky leaps off the couch. Skidding of claws against carpet, then wood. Excited snuffling and huffing. Rapid movement of the dog’s tail.

Leaping to his feet Matt freezes, stuck between rushing forward to drag Lucky away from the stranger and to safety, and finding some place to hide.

“Well met my good friend.” A deep voice. Loud. “I’ve missed you greatly as well.” Movement of fur. The stranger strokes Lucky. Probably not a threat?

Matt keeps a ready stance anyway, trying to stop the shivers that wrack through his body.

“Ah, Matthew.” A smile in the too loud voice. “Jarvis has told me much about you. It is an honour to meet someone who has captured my friend’s hearts so readily. I am the mighty Thor, perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

Thor smells like the moments before a thunder storm. Ozone, metal, and strange spices he has no name for. His heart beats oddly. Closer to Steve and Bucky’s heartbeats than normal humans, but different still. He moves with confidence and prowess. A lion ready to take down any opponent. His muscles sound at least as dense as Jessica’s.

Matt flinches.

“Master Thor,” Jarvis says quickly. “I think Mr Murdock would prefer if you sat down a distance from him.”

Thor’s footsteps stopped moving as soon as Matt flinched. Now he moves, footsteps lighter and more cautious. Fabric against fabric as he settles in an armchair. “I meant to cause you no distress,” he says, softer than before.

“Mr Murdock,” Jarvis says. “Mr Stark is on his way to the music room. Perhaps you would like to wait for him there? It’s the door at the opposite end of the corridor from the bathroom.”

Matt’s moving before Jarvis finishes his sentence, hand flapping at his side. He’s never been in the music room, but sometimes he hears Natasha or Clint in there. Natasha playing the violin, and Clint the flute. Bruce goes in there when he’s tense and there’s the sound of a drum kit. All Matt’s muscles coil with tension. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near Thor, god or not.

He counts the rooms as he passes them, looking for a way to distract his mind from the panic. Meeting room on his right where he talked to Olivia. Unknown room to his left. Another door to his left. The closet that holds boardgames and puzzles. A door to his right. The games room. Another unknown door to his left. Then a door directly in front of him as the corridor turns to the right. The music room. Click as it unlocks. It opens easily.

“I fear I frightened Matthew,” Thor says behind him as Matt starts exploring the music room.

“Easy to do.” But there’s a note in Tony’s voice that suggests he’s not happy. “He’s skittish at times. Has a lot of triggers. What kind of frightened are we talking about, Jarvis?”

Large object to the left of the room. A piano. A couch beside it. Beanbags too. He circles the room, brushing fingers over the shelves full of books. Sheet music maybe? Various cupboards. Pepper’s guitar. A large drum kit in the right corner of the room.

“His breathing rate is moderately high,” Jarvis’s voice says from the communal lounge. “He’s stimming and appears to be cataloguing the contents of the music room to calm himself down.”

“Good puppy.” Relief in Tony’s voice. “Look Goldilocks. I’ll be happy to hang out with you and critic your fashion choices later, but for now I’ve got some babysitting to do.”

Confusion in Thor’s voice. “Matthew appeared to be of age. Perhaps I’m still not used to your peculiar midgardian lifespans?”

“No Pikachu. This is babysitting, like Robocop babysitting. Only less surly and significantly more adorable.”

A solemn note to Thor’s voice. “Matthew did appear most adorable. I’ll leave you to your sacred duty.”

***

Tony doesn’t say a word. He walks with his fast clumsy footsteps to the piano, sits down, and starts playing a soothing song that sounds very different to the usual music he likes. “This song is special to me,” he says once he’s finished. “So I’m going to play it a few more times. Performer chooses the music, audience shuts his cake hole.”

Tapping one of the symbols on the drum kit lightly, Matt heads to the couch by the piano and curls up. The music is good. Beautiful. It makes it easier to breathe.

“So how come you’re down here this time of night?” Tony asks while he’s partway through his second repetition of the song.

‘Bad,’ Matt signs. Then finger-spells ‘dream.’ His skin crawls when he remembers just how bad the dream was. He hadn’t remembered biting off the thumb before. Not in detail.

“Yeah?” No hesitancy in any of the notes of the piano. Tony’s really good at this. “Want to talk about it?”

Matt shakes his head.

“Don’t blame you pup.” The last haunting notes of the song spread out into the room. “I never do either.”

***

“You’re just jealous because he likes me better than you,” Tony says later that morning when Matt refuses to come out from under his workbench.

Fond exasperation in Pepper’s voice. “I’m not jealous Tony. Natasha wants to show him something. Matt, don’t you want to come see?”

Matt waves a hand in front of his eyes, then backs further under the workbench. He doesn’t want to go anywhere. It’s been a bad day. First the bad dream and stranger cutting into his sleep. Then he goes for a jog like usual, and Thor is there. He goes to breakfast, and Thor is there too. Foggy got annoyed because he didn’t eat. Matt tried to sneak a knife from the table, Steve had to pry it out of his grasp, and then everyone got annoyed. Steve had to hold him because he hit and bit around the breakfast plates. Bucky had to get the boxing equipment to stop him hurting himself.

There’s talk about it being due to xanax withdrawal. He’s been taking it a lot recently because of court and panic attacks. They think he might be addicted. Sam talked to Fiona, and he might need to take a constant dose until court is over, then taper off his dose after that if he’s ready to. And maybe it is that. He does feel a lot better now he’s taken xanax. But it’s also Thor.

“You know what I mean,” Pepper says, so patient. “Natasha hasn’t seen you yet today, and we don’t know how long she’ll be awake before she needs to take another nap.”

Natasha’s not as bad as she was when Matt first sensed her at the hospital, but she sleeps in late and takes at least two naps a day. She has to take iron pills every day, and Sam only lets her have one cup of tea because it decreases iron absorption. It’ll take a while for her to get her strength back after her extreme blood loss. Matt listens warily.

“You can take her some tea?”

Matt perks up at that. Natasha likes her tea even more now she’s allowed so little. She was really nice to Clint for a whole hour yesterday after he brought her some. And Matt doesn’t care whether Natasha is nice to him or not, but he sometimes worries she might be mad at him for her getting shot and just hiding it really well. This might help make sure she’s not mad at him.

He clambers out from under the workbench. “She likes the tea that smells like smoke.”

“Russian Caravan tea.” Movement as Pepper nods. “We can do that.”

***

The mysterious room opposite the games room on the communal floor smells like sand, wood, plastic, and warmth.

It holds figures, Natasha explains to him as she drinks her tea. Ones that she uses for her therapy.

Sandplay therapy. There are two sand trays. One with wet sand you can add water to. The other with dry sand. You make pictures in the sand using the figures. A little like Sam made him do with the dinosaurs when he surrounded them with Jenga blocks.

“I have trouble speaking truthfully about things that happened to me and how I feel about them,” Natasha says, sitting on the carpet beside him. “It’s less easy for me to lie if I don’t use my words. So sometimes I use sandplay. Fiona’s considering introducing it to you at some point. She asked me to show you the figures since you can’t just glance at them like I can.”

The carpet is soft. Warm. He runs his hands over it lightly. He’s not sure how he feels about this. Sand is what little kids play with. “Are they toys?”

“Kind of.” Slight movement as she leans forward. “Pepper, could you?”

Scuffing of carpet as Pepper takes something plastic from the wooden shelves. Dragging sound as it moves over to Matt and Natasha.

Natasha’s movements are sluggish. Her right leg doesn’t move. Plastic sound as she takes the lid off the container. “Here, you’ll like this one.”

They are toys. Little plastic figures. He takes out one, frowning as his fingers trace it. A woman. Wearing a dress?

“That’s Elsa.” A smile in Natasha’s voice. “From Frozen.”

He liked that movie. The snowman was funny. Though he didn’t like how Elsa pushed everyone away, including her sister who loved her. “Adults aren’t supposed to play with toys?”

“You should try telling Clint that.” Plastic against plastic as Pepper looks through the box. “I think Tiana might be my favourite Disney princess. Her or Belle.”

Belle is from Beauty and the Beast. He remembers that one. He didn’t like it when the beast scared Belle. “I don’t know Tiana.”

Plastic placed in his hand. Another plastic woman. Her dress is a lot bigger than Elsa’s, and shaped like a bell.

“She’s from The Princess and the Frog,” Pepper says. “A princess with a sense for business. We can watch the movie tonight if you want.”

“Natasha, Bruce, Foggy, Steve and Clint have therapy today.” Matt shakes his head. “They get to choose.”

Natasha’s hand nudges his side. “You’ve got therapy today too.”

“I have therapy every day. It doesn’t count.”

“It counts Murdock.” Shuffling of plastic. Natasha places another figure in his hand. “This is Rapunzel. From Tangled.”

He places Tiana back in the box to trace Rapunzel. His fingers stop at her hair, short and spiky. “Rapunzel has long hair.”

“Not at the end of the movie,” Pepper reminds him. “Flynn cuts it off to save her.”

His eyes burn. He shakes his head. “She’s supposed to have long hair.”

Slight jump in Natasha’s heart-rate. “Why Murdock?”

Too many reasons. Frustration itches inside him, wanting to push all the words out. “She won’t be able to swing from things. She won’t be able to save people as easily as she did. She won’t be as useful without her hair.”

Pepper’s hand against his arm. Reassuring. “Flynn will love her anyway, won’t he?”

That’s true.

He goes to put her back in the plastic tub, then stops. “Is Flynn in there?”

“Wait.” Plastic against plastic as Pepper searches for him. “Found him.”

It feels better to put Rapunzel and Flynn back in the tub together. The prickles of anxiety in his lungs don’t feel so sharp.

“Here.” Natasha places more plastic in his hand. Her muscles are tense. Is she OK? “See if you can guess who this is?”

The figure is different from the others. Smaller. A round ball with a smaller ball on top, then a long misshapen ball on top of that. Little pieces of plastic poking out of the top of the misshapen ball. A pointy piece of plastic from the misshapen ball. A nose. Eyebrows, eyes, a strange dip in the plastic he decides is a wide grin. Thin arms. Little round feet. Three large bumps down the front that conjures up a hazy picture of a snowman from a book he read once.

Laughter pushes out of him. It sounds thin and thready like from his nightmare.

Natasha’s arms wrap around him, pulling him close. Concern in her voice like he just burst into tears rather than laughter. Maybe part of him did, because while there’s no wet on his cheeks, his eyes burn and his chest aches. “Matt you’re OK. Take a deep breath. This would be a lot easier if you told us what’s going on in your head.”

He doesn’t know. Court was horrible, but it was predictable too. Now it feels like he’s been flung into chaos, no matter how carefully Steve helps him plan his day. Thor is always there, carrying around an unknown amount of triggers with him. There’ll be court on Monday, then after that finishes he doesn’t know what’ll happen.

“The xanax should be wearing off now,” Pepper whispers. “Withdrawal?”

Movement against him as Natasha shakes his head. “Shouldn’t happen for another few hours at the very least. And probably won’t peak until it’s out of his system at least a day.”

The laughter trails off. His hand clutches the figure hard enough to hurt. “I - I like Olaf.”

“Good.” Natasha pulls away from the tight hug. Her hands stay on his arms. “I like Olaf too. He reminds me of Clint.”

Matt shakes his head, clinging to the topic with a desperateness that scares him. It’s good to talk about something that doesn’t trigger him. “Clint can’t be Olaf. He’d lose his nose if it’s detached.”

Pepper laughs. It sounds real. Not strange like his own. “You’re right. Detachable body parts wouldn’t suit him.”

“Pepper?” Natasha’s hand leaves his arm. Pointing? “The top one?”

Pepper’s warmth moves higher for a moment. Then she’s back with rattling plastic against plastic. Another box. Sucking sound as the lid comes off. “Oh.”

Plastic against carpet as Natasha moves the new tub closer to her. It sounds smaller than the last one. “I think you’re a little disconnected right now. Let’s play a game. There’s one figure here for each of the Avengers. I’d like you to tell me who is who.”

It’s an effort to put Olaf back in the tub. He likes tracing the misshapen head. It’s different to how he’d pictured the snowman when listening to the movie. There are seven plastic figures. Finding Black Widow is easy. The toy makers aren’t subtle about the female figure. They’re also unrealistic. Hulk is easy too. Bigger than the others with etched muscles and a roaring mouth. Then there’s Tony who feels more machine than human. Clint who’s holding his bow. Steve has his shield on his arm. Sam has a giant backpack that holds his wings. His fingers stop on the wavy plastic that marks Thor’s cloak.

“I don’t like Thor.” He blinks rapidly once the words are out. That’s not a good thing to say. Thor is Natasha and Pepper’s friend. Even Foggy seems to like him. Dropping the Thor figure he signs ‘sorry.’

“I’m not mad,” Natasha says patiently. “You’re allowed to like or not like someone. It would help if I knew why.”

Matt shrugs. “There should be figures for Bruce and Jarvis. They’re part of the Avengers too.”

“Come on Murdock.” Natasha shakes his shoulder lightly. “Don’t change the subject. You can do this. Did Thor do something to hurt you?”

Matt shakes his head. It’s not anything like that. Thor didn’t do anything wrong. He’s just there.

“Did he do anything to scare you?”

It’s no good lying to Natasha. He places Thor by the team instead. He may not like Thor, but the others do.

“You have a problem with strangers,” Natasha says slowly. “Is this because of that?”

He hunches his shoulders. “Sam’s making lunch,” he whispers. “Cookies too.”

“We’ve been hoping that having you around Thor would help you warm up to him. It worked for Kate. You started off very negative around her, and now you seem comfortable in her presence. But if it’s causing incidences like this morning, maybe we need to change tactics. Is there anything us or Thor could do to help you relax around him?”

There’s nothing. Nothing can make him like Thor. But then again he felt the same way about Kate until he got to know her.

A long pause. Then a hand with Natasha’s heartbeat covers his own. He’d clenched his hand into a fist without knowing. “Imagine Cera’s here. Does she like Thor?”

He shakes his head before he realises what he’s done.

“Cera can say whatever she wants about anyone.” Natasha’s thumb massages the back of his hand. “She can’t get told off or punished. I know this seems strange, but I’d like you to tell me what Cera would say. Like your word association exercises. Just say the first thing that comes into your head. What does Cera think of Thor?”

He tries not to think about it. Once he ignores the weirdness of talking for a toy, the words come out easier. Matt Murdock still has trouble talking about topics that make him feel so vulnerable. Cera can talk about whatever she wants. “He’s a threat.”

“What does she think Thor might do?”

“She doesn’t know him.” That’s the problem. “He could do anything.”

“How about we make some rules,” Pepper suggests. “Then you’ll know what he can and can’t do.”

***

Thor isn’t allowed to make loud noises or sudden movements around Matt. He’s not allowed within one metre of Matt at any time. He can’t give anyone giant bear hugs like he did that morning at breakfast, because Matt’s brain gets confused and can’t decide if he’s attacking someone. He’s not allowed to touch any of Matt’s stuff, including his dinosaurs, his car, the treasure box Natasha gave him, or the blanket he likes. And Thor’s hammer isn’t allowed anywhere near Matt because it doesn’t make sense to his senses and it gives him a headache.

Natasha only vetoes one of his Thor rules. She says that Thor should be allowed to speak to him, but agrees that Matt doesn’t have to answer. Matt’s not happy about that. A person he doesn’t know speaking to him makes him feel like there’s a spotlight being shone on him and everyone is staring. But he’s gotten a lot better at not flinching or panicking when someone talks to him, and Natasha reminds him that he’s supposed to be working at the edge of his comfort zone. If he makes things too easy, then his fears will get stronger because he’s not challenging them.

Lunch goes well. Thor takes on the rules with no complaint. The others seem to have fun catching up with Thor. Natasha passes around the rest of the raspberry and passion fruit pastilles Matt and Sam made her yesterday, and Thor compliments both of them on their “magnificent skills preparing such delicacies.”

It goes well until there’s a light smack of Tony pushing Clint and a “Swallow your food before you talk you heathen.”

_Old Spice squeezes his face, fingers digging into his cheeks. “You’re the one who came to us. You’re the one who made this happen.”_

“Matt.” A hand with Foggy’s heartbeat on his arm. “Hey Matty. You’re in the communal lounge of Avengers tower. We’re having lunch with everyone. I think you had a flashback. You’re safe.”

Wet licks his face. He flinches back. Puts a foot underneath him to run away, then promptly falls down. Wooden floor beneath him. Wasn’t he sitting in a chair a moment ago.

“Lucky.” Bucky’s voice. “Back off.”

“Hey.” Tony sounds confused. “I thought that was an approved word now?”

“It was.” Dark in Foggy’s voice. “Fiona said he might become sensitive to it again if he ever got those memories back.”

Matt’s shaking hands make the sign for ‘vomit’ without opening his mouth like the sign usually requires. It must make some kind of sense because Clint’s footsteps run to the kitchen area. He doesn’t make it back in time before Matt throws up.

***

“You nap,” Foggy says as he settles beside him on the large couch. “I’ll read you a bedtime story.”

Matt hopes his the weighted blanket over him, fleece blanket underneath his head, and dog curled into his side doesn’t take away from the impact of his ‘what the hell are you playing at’ look.

“I can feel you glaring at me,” Foggy says dismissively. Something humming in his hands. “And it’s not going to change anything. So lie back, relax, and prepare to be mesmerised.”

Matt grumbles, but he shifts into a comfortable position, head burrowed into a pile of fleece blanket in the corner of the couch. At least there’s only Sam in the communal lounge, making sure they have enough baked goods for movie night. Bruce and Steve are in therapy. Natasha is napping. And everyone else is having a Nerf gun battle on the gym floor. Maybe as an effort to cheer up Clint. He and Steve wouldn’t usually have therapy today, but they’ve had to go more often due to getting buried alive in New Delhi.

Foggy leans against his side, nice and warm. His voice is soothing. “The cats nestle close to their kittens. The lambs have laid down with the sheep. You’re cosy and warm in your bed my dear. Please go the fuck to sleep.”

Matt blinks a few times, then grins. By the time Foggy’s halfway through the story he’s giggling, while Foggy’s voice remains deadly serious. He shuffles closer to Foggy’s side, leaning his head against his arm. “You’re awesome.”

“And amazing,” Foggy prompts.

It’s difficult to enjoy things lately. Especially on his bad days, but Foggy has a way of making difficult things easier. Matt hums thoughtfully. “And a little big headed.”

A light swat to his side. “Shut up and listen to your story.”

***

Every day Matt has to try and spend some time in a public setting. That can be sitting on the cafeteria floor, helping Bruce choose food from the market, or having a coffee somewhere. Today he’s going to Ed’s bakery. He’s been here several times. Mostly to pick up stuff. Lately he’s been sitting on a table in the corner of the bakery before he leaves.

It’s challenging. The world is a lot noisier than during his early morning jog. And he’s always scared someone will recognise him. Pepper explained that she thinks the attention he got last time was because of his panic attack. She doesn’t think he’ll get that level of attention again, though it is possible that people or reporters might try to ask questions.

“What’ll it be boys?” Ed asks as soon as Matt walks through the door. Ed’s the main reason they come here. He says if anyone bothers them, Matt can hide in the back room. And he doesn’t mind Jarvis phoning before they come to ask how busy the shop is.

Matt clicks his fingers to get Lucky’s attention, then points at Ed.

The dog pads obediently to the counter. Claws against wood at he stands on his hind paws in order to give Ed the note Matt gave him.

Two heartbeats raise in the corner of the shop, but the other three customers show no reaction. Shuffling of metal chair against wooden floor as someone to his right gets to her feet. He’d recognised her heartbeat from outside the building. Karen.

“I could make my living just from your orders.” Movement as Ed nods his head. “Right. I’ll have them packaged in fifteen minutes. You want any of this to eat in?”

Considering pause from Sam. “How are you doing Matt?”

Matt raises two fingers. Being out here isn’t nice, but he thinks he can manage staying a while. He’s getting better at that. Last time he stayed for nineteen minutes.

“I’ll have my chocolate fudge cake here.” Sam’s footsteps walk closer to the counter. “And a coffee. Lots of milk. One sugar. Karen, you want anything?”

“No.” Nerves in Karen’s voice. “I already ordered.”

“Matt, want a drink?”

Matt nods. He usually can’t eat in public places, but sometimes he can drink. He signs ‘water.’

***

A man leaves the bakery and makes a phone call. “You’ll never guess who I saw while getting a coffee. Falcon and Daredevil. Yeah, I know what they say, but I really don’t think he’s faking. The guy’s as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Flinched whenever anyone walked through the door.”

An elderly woman whispering across the room. “Putting on a bit of a drama, isn’t he? My sister was raped, and she brushed herself off and went to work the next day. Had a few tearful moments, but nothing like what they say is wrong with him.”

“I know,” the woman next to her whispers back. “And what is this nonsense about not being able to speak? Yet they said on that talk show that he does speak to certain people. So he can speak. He’s just choosing not to.”

“Matt.” Sam’s voice. “Take a deep breath. You have your headphones if you need them.”

Matt pulls his attention back to the table in the corner of the shop. Karen in a chair to his right, Sam to his left. He grimaces. Signs ‘sorry.’

“It’s fine.” No lie in Sam’s heart. “We’re out here to get you used to all of this again. Bet it’s noisier here than in the tower.”

Matt nods. A lot noisier.

Smell of chocolate cake from Sam’s plate. More scrapes of metal cutlery against ceramic plate now. Sam’s almost finished. “Can you tell me what you’re hearing.”

‘Talk,’ Matt signs. Finger-spells ‘about,’ then points at himself.

“They’re talking about you,” Sam translates. Last scrape against ceramic as he finishes the chocolate cake. “Do you want to tell us what they’re saying?”

Matt shakes his head. He doesn’t want to.

“OK.” No judgement in Sam’s voice. “If you ever do want to tell us, we’ll listen. For now can you focus on us? If they’re saying something negative, remember they don’t know you like we do, and we’re all very fond of you Matthew Murdock.”

A nod. He remembers the last good person talk. They all say they like him. Their hearts don’t seem to be lying about it.

Scrape of Sam’s chair against floor as he stands up. “I’m going to call the car and make sure the cakes are ready. Are you two going to be all right for a few minutes?”

Matt nods. Movement as Karen nods too.

“If you need to get out of here, go to the backroom.” Sam’s footsteps walk towards the counter. “Ed won’t mind.”

Awkward silence for a few moments. Matt pokes the small squares of cake on his plate. Free samples. Ed always gives him some when he comes in. Steve and Sam encourage him to try nibbling on them, to help get used to eating in these type of situations again.

Karen’s heart keeps beating too fast, but her muscles tense like they do when she’s going to say something despite her fear. “Matt, Foggy talked to me, and I need you to know that I’m not judging you for what was in that video. What happened is on them, not on you. You’re still my friend. That hasn’t changed.”

It can only be your fault if you make an informed decision. Matt didn’t choose to be raped, so getting raped wasn’t his fault. They chose to rape him. It’s their fault. He understands that. The friend part is more difficult. He still doesn’t understand how she could see those things and want to be his friend.

But Steve saw things and didn’t stop being his friend. Foggy saw things and didn’t stop being his friend. Clint saw a picture from the video. He’s still funny, plays a lot, and wants to hang out with Matt in the jungle gym. Maybe he gets quieter than he used to after Matt has a flashback or one of his drifting away moments, but that’s the only change he’s noticed.

Metal against ceramic. Karen fiddles with her plate and spoon even though she finished eating a while ago. “There’ve been more threats. Nothing like the dog. Emails and letters mostly. I don’t want you to worry. Between the Avengers and Pepper’s security you’ll be safe. Me, Jessica, and the others are working hard to find Rowe. The one you call Baseball Bat. We think it’s him behind it. The evidence keeps stacking up. He met with the woman from the police station. They were witnessed arguing and exchanged something. Then a spot check of her apartment - which we’re not mentioning - turned up twenty thousand dollars in a package under her mattress. It’s him, and we’re going to find him, then all of this will be over.”

Bubblegum is undergoing Grand Jury. Old Spice, Dirt, Skittles, and Cocaine are awaiting trial. Even if they are all caught, and they do end up in jail it’s hard to imagine this ever being over. The future is vague and full of a million things that could go wrong. He doesn’t like thinking about it.

“Matt.” More hesitation in her voice. “We saw something on the video and - are you sure there were only six people there?”

Of course there were only six. There have to be, because he can only remember six. The thought of there being more people who he can’t even remember makes his stomach churn. It’s hard to breathe.

“Sorry.” Karen’s heart jumps. “This isn’t the place for this. I fell into detective mode. It’s fine. We don’t need to talk about that. Just breathe.”

Karen saw the video. Intellectually he knows that. But it’s like there’s a emotional side to him that hasn’t processed what that means, so keeps flinching at every reminder. Karen saw him being hurt, and now she’s seeing him react like this. It feels like she’s staring straight into his soul now, because she’s seeing his terror, and she saw exactly where that terror comes from. It makes it hard to get his breathing back under control, even with Lucky’s help.

“Matt.” Warmth nearby as she reaches toward him.

He jerks back so violently that his chair scrapes against the floor.

Silence from both of them, except Matt’s laboured breathing. Then scrape of metal chair against wooden floor as Karen gets up. Sharp footsteps, then the chime of the door as she leaves the building. Her breathing sounds wet.

Karen’s upset. Without hesitation, Matt pushes to his feet and rushes after her.

***

She’s in the alley by the bakery making crying noises. Smell of tears.

Matt approaches cautiously. Tries to say her name. It doesn’t come out. He has his PECS book in his satchel, but the small computer is in the bakery on the table.

Small gasp as she seems to notice him. “Matt. You shouldn’t be here. Sam will worry.”

Everyone worries about him. They’re right to. Matt’s not very stable at times. But right now Matt’s worried about Karen. Taking off his sunglasses, he tries to convey that in his expression as he approaches her.

“I thought I was helping.” Sobbing sounds. “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I got caught up and forgot what you would want. I thought I was helping my friend. Instead I lost you.”

I’m right here, he’d say if he had words. Sure, his body betrays him at times and flinches under what he imagines to be Karen’s scrutiny. He needs to learn to ask for clarification of what she’s thinking about him instead of assuming the worst. He knows that. He’s working on it. He’s willing to try and keep their friendship together if she wants that too.

He freezes before he can decide whether she’d want him to hug her or not. A noise. Three men enter the alley. Heartbeats and scents that he doesn’t recognise. They smell like metal. Knives on them somewhere. Metal rattling. In their pockets. No gunpowder. Probably no guns on them.

The other end of the alley is wall. In his best condition Matt could jump and climb his way out, but he’s not sure his right arm has the strength for that yet, and it definitely doesn’t have the strength to carry Karen along with him.

The men have fast heartbeats and tense muscles. Even without the knives he’d know they were up to something. “We need a word with you.”

Matt’s body slides into a fighting stance so easily it shocks him. He steps in front of Karen, using a foot to nudge Lucky backwards. He won’t let either of them get hurt. He’ll die before he lets that happen.

The men approach fast. One of them laughs. “The big bad Daredevil huh? BOO!”

Matt’s heart leaps into his throat at the sudden movement. His body flinches back into Karen.

Karen’s hands steady him. Anger in her voice. Directed at them, not him, he reminds himself. “If you don’t leave right now-”

“You’ll what?” The laughing man asks. “Set your toothless devil on us? Maybe he was something once, but he’s nothing now. Look at him cowering. My Grandma could beat him up with one hand behind her back.”

“Quit messing around,” another man says. “We gotta deliver a message before their babysitter shows up. Bossman says if you don’t withdraw your cooperation from the rape trials he’ll love to give you another lesson on what happens when you cross him. You or your fat lawyer friend. Though personally I think these blond females you hang out with are more enticing.”

No one’s allowed to hurt Karen or Marci or Foggy.

“Speak for yourself.” A hand closes around Matt’s throat, gripping gently. “Did you see the video? This whore’s lips stretched out over a dick. Tears running down his cheeks. That one’s going to be number one hit in my spank bank for years.”

Flesh against flesh. Karen pushes the man away from him. “You touch him again and I’ll break your nose.”

“Fine,” the man says. “Maybe I’ll just touch you. Bossman did say to make sure you understood the message.” Sharp sound of displaced air. A punch being thrown.

It’s been over seven weeks since he last fought as Daredevil. His body remembers even when his mind doesn’t. A quick kick to the side of the man’s knee. Cracking popping sound as the man’s kneecap dislocates.

Sharp movement. Huh. Karen throws a punch. Clack of teeth against teeth. It hits his jaw. The man goes down.

Matt’s already moving. Dodging a blow with more ease than he remembers managing. Natasha’s lessons paying off? A punch to the man’s sternum to stun him. Two to his head to knock him to the ground.

He turns to face the last man, but his heart already beats from the alley floor. Harsh breathing. Too wet. Broken nose, and it sounds like Karen has her shoe on his throat.

Cocking his head, Matt checks the other two men are out. Good. “There’s a knife in his right jacket pocket. Make sure he doesn’t go for it.”

Jump in her heartbeat. Surprise. A smile in her voice. “Thanks. Are you OK?”

Physically, yes. Emotionally, he won’t know until the adrenaline wears off. He already knows he’s going to have to scrub his throat when he gets back to the tower. “I’m not injured. Are you OK?”

The smile doesn’t leave her voice. “I am now.”

Running footsteps. Matt shifts into his fighting stance before he recognises one of them as Sam’s. Another is Ed’s, something wooden in his hands. A bat? Two more heartbeats. He recognises them from court. Stark security. Shocked breathing as they take in the scene.

For a moment Matt wonders why they didn’t come sooner, then he realises it’s only been a few minutes since he and Karen entered the alley. Sam and Ed were probably still loading the cakes into the car.

“Uh,” Karen says. “Could someone lend a hand? My leg’s getting sore.”

Movement from Sam. The Stark security rush towards Karen.

“Are you two OK?” Sam sounds worried.

Matt nods at the same time Karen makes careful footsteps through the unconscious bodies saying she’s fine too. Skin against leather collar as she tugs Lucky away from one of the men.

“Well good.” A Different tone enters Sam’s voice. Annoyed. “Where did I tell you to go if you had to leave?”

“The backroom,” Karen says, sounding like a chastened child. “I’m sorry. I was the one who left. Matt just followed to make sure I was all right.”

“Matt-” Sam starts.

Matt ducks his head, hunching his shoulders against the words about to come. He’s been lectured more than enough times by his Dad, the nuns, Foggy, Anna, but it never gets any nicer to hear.

“I can’t do it,” Sam sighs after a long pause. “Look, you didn’t do anything wrong. You acted with good intention. We just worry about you and don’t like it when you end up in dangerous situations. Bucky might get worried when he hears about this and he might lecture you a little. Foggy too.” A smile enters his voice. “Use that kicked puppy look you just did, and you’ll probably get out of it. Now let’s go to the car and you can tell me what happened here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talking through puppets or toys is a popular tactic in play therapy. The reason why Natasha (to her surprise) found it very useful in her own therapy is because she was brought up in an environment where she was constantly monitored and judged. Not living up to those standards had harsh consequences. So she adapted by constantly adjusting her behavior according to those around her. Pretending she was more competent than she was, lying to portray a version of herself less likely to get herself killed.
> 
> Prolonged open, honest, and vulnerable communication is not just difficult to Natasha. It's dangerous. Tactics that distance herself from her feelings or communicate them indirectly are very useful to her, even if a lot of those come from play therapy (which she was initially against trying). Practicing those skills indirectly has helped her allow herself to occasionally be more honest and vulnerable around her team. 
> 
> There's sandplay therapy and sandtray therapy. They use pretty much the same equipment, but differ in methods. Here's an explanation of sandplay: http://barbaraturner.org/about-sandplay/
> 
> Some of the practitioners of both methods use different methods. Which adds more complication. In summary, sandplay tends to be more symbolic, have less instruction, and be less about interpretation. Nat does sandplay (with some adjustments to method to help her develop. For example, there was likely more instruction in the beginning to ease her into it.) The therapy Matt does will lean more towards sandtray, because it needs less training for Fiona to carry out.
> 
> I'm a fan of mixed therapies, adjusting to what the client needs. Matt gets a lot out of learning coping techniques, and cbt (cognitive behavior therapy)/ dbt. Fiona's been experimenting with various play and art therapies lately (prompted by his recent communication lapses and dissociation). So you'll see a few of these mentioned as Fiona tries to find out what things work for Matt, and what things don't.
> 
> The book Foggy reads Matt is 'Go the fuck to sleep.' See here for details: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Go-F-Sleep-Adam-Mansbach/dp/0857862650


	43. Chapter 43

How do people do it? Get raped, go to the police, suffer through that examination, and tell all the details of one of the worst things that ever happened to you to a stranger.

Matt thinks about that as he runs his hands over the braille cards in the room on the therapy floor. There are a lot of cards. Numbers. Body parts. Sexual acts. Acts of physical assault. The names of the people who raped him.

It’s over seven weeks since he was raped, and he still can’t talk about it. Not out loud. Not using his computer. So Fiona came up with another method for them to try.

Matt sits on the floor next to the low table and lays out the cards. First he puts the number one, then all, then assaulted another person. Two, then me, then hit. Three, then me, then hit. He knows he hit two of them, but he can’t remember which ones. Fiona thinks the head injury might make those details a little hazy. Four, then Baseball Bat’s name, then hit with object, then me, then head. Five, all, physical assault, me. Six, undress, me. Seven, me, hit, Baseball Bat. Eight, Baseball Bat, hit with object, me, arm.

He pretends Fiona’s not in the room for the next cards. She makes it easy. She sits on the floor a distance from him. She told him unless he asked her to, she wouldn’t speak until he was finished. It doesn’t matter if it’s not perfect or not in the right order. Things are bound to be muddled at first.

Nine, Bubblegum, anal rape, me. Ten, Baseball Bat, anal rape, me. Eleven, Bubblegum, oral rape, me. Twelve, me, bit, Bubblegum, thumb. Thirteen, hit, me. Fourteen, Baseball Bat, strangle, me. Then things get more hazy. So he stops putting the numbers that show the order. Starts adding things he remembers happening instead.

Old spice, anal rape, me. How many times did that happen? He’s not sure. Definitely more than once. There’s only a very hazy memory of Dirt doing the same thing, but he puts it down anyway. Dirt, anal rape, me. He doesn’t remember Skittles and Cocaine. He thinks they raped him too, but he can’t remember it. And there’s something the man said when he attacked him and Karen earlier that day. Something that implies there was another oral rape, because he doesn’t remember the first one going like that.

Old Spice, bit, me, back. Old Spice, psychological torture, me. Most of them psychologically tortured him, but he remembers Old Spice the most. All, verbal abuse, me.

It’s a shock when he sits back and realises how much he’s said. It’s a lot easier to use his hands and choose from options than to try and find the words to spin a narrative. Nodding to Fiona, he scoots to the side of the table so she can come and see what he’s done.

It’s strange that he’s so comfortable low down on the floor. But as long as his mind doesn’t start panicking about people looming, it’s better down here. When he gets anxious it can be harder to sense where things are around him, and where he is in space. Perching on the edge of a couch can feel like he’s teetering on the edge of a cliff with little idea of whether he’s falling.

Low to the ground, or squished into the corner of a couch with solid around him, he feels more secure. Funny since being close to the edge of a rooftop can bring him the same security for different reasons.

"Thank you for sharing this with me," Fiona says after a long few moments. "This helps make things easier for me to understand. Would it be OK if I took a picture of this, so you can decide whether to show it to Olivia later?"

Matt nods cautiously. The idea of other people seeing this isn't a nice one, but Olivia's different to most people. This is her job. Other people have told her these type of things. She shouldn't have a bad reaction or judge him, should she?

Click of the camera. Fiona takes the picture. "Is it OK if I ask some questions about this? You can ask me to change the subject or stop talking at any point."

Matt shrugs, muscles tense. What is she going to ask?

Fiona's warmth stays low to the ground. "Are you able to tell me what you mean by psychological torture? You can use your aids."

Matt shivers, a phantom voice telling him that he wanted it, that if he didn't he wouldn't have moved. It's too big a topic for his computer. He doesn't know what signs or PECS he could use to explain it. He should try. Fiona says talking about these things will help, but he doesn't know how to talk about it. It's a jumble of emotions in his head, not words. He doesn't know what words he could use, or if his mind would let him use those words if he had any.

"What number are you on?"

He shrugs again. He doesn't know.

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to," Fiona says with her usual patience. "But if you want to, you could try showing me what Dennis Short did. I have some stuffed animals if you'd like to use them to demonstrate what happened."

Another shrug. It's strange. All these games and toys recently. But Fiona says they can be useful therapy techniques for people who have trouble communicating verbally, including adults. They do help. Even Natasha's odd tactic to get him to talk through Cera helped although he doesn't know why. Maybe this will help too.

Rustling of a plastic bag as Fiona dumps soft toys by the low table. "There's a range. Use whichever ones you want to."

He takes a few moments to sort through the toys. They smell of coffee and cats like Fiona does. Another human scent too. Perhaps she has a child. There's a stuffed dog with floppy ears. A teddy bear with sharp plastic edges that his fingers don't like.

He makes the dog lie on the floor, much like Lucky is doing now. Makes the bear move away from the dog and sit down watching. Heat rises to his cheeks. This is odd. The closest he's come to playing with toys since he was three.

"Dennis Short watched you?" Fiona asks. No judgement in her voice. There's never been any judgement in her voice. Some day he'll learn to stop listening for it.

Matt nods. Makes the dog twitch with his other hand. Then moves the bear back to the dog. He doesn't want to show what happened next, so he drops the bear onto the dog. Drawing his hands tight to his stomach, and clenching them into fists to try and get the imagined oily grime of the alley off them.

"You moved?" Fiona asks. "Then he came back?"

Another nod.

And there’s something else, isn’t there? He’s spoken about this before to Lucky. Fiona hasn’t requested to see any of those videos, but he knows Jarvis records them. He points at himself, signs ‘talk,’ then points to Lucky. Jarvis translates.

Fiona frowns. “Do you want to talk to Lucky about this?”

Matt shakes his head. Signs ‘past.’ He already did.

Movement of Fiona nodding as Jarvis translates. “I think I understand. Would you let me listen to that recording? It could help.”

Matt nods, but signs ‘later.’ Not now. He doesn’t want to be here while she’s listening to that.

“I can wait until the session is over if you’d like?”

A nod. Shifting his feet over the carpet he signs ‘Olivia.’

“Could Olivia watch that recording?” Fiona asks once Jarvis translates.

Another nod. He doesn’t want anyone listening to that, but if Olivia’s going to look at the cards he laid out, she might as well listen to that to. Maybe he could finally make some kind of statement about the rape. It could help his court case.

“I’ll ask her to come to the tower and watch it.” Scratching of pen against paper. Fiona writes something down. “I’d like Jarvis to go through these videos with you. At the end of every day I’d like him to ask if you want me or Olivia to see one of the videos. Only one. You’re still getting used to making decisions like this. It’s OK if you decide you don’t want us to see it. You can always change your mind later, and if you don’t that’s fine too. While you’re talking to Lucky I want you to know you’re in control. That no one will hear the words you say unless you decide you want them to.OK?”

Matt nods. That sounds good. If he knew someone else would have to hear the words he spoke to Lucky, he’s not sure he could say them at all.

“I’d like to talk about something Natasha told me if that’s OK.” Shifting as Fiona rearranges herself on the carpet. “About the person who trained you.”

Matt told Natasha something about that, didn’t he? He said the person who trained him hit hard enough to break bones when Matt didn’t know how to defend himself. He opens his mouth to say something. He doesn’t know what. No words come out. That’s not right. He can talk to Fiona most of the time. This isn’t a touchy subject. Usually he’d be able to speak. He huffs, exasperated.

“Try taking a deep breath.”

Matt obediently takes a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out slowly.

“Have you watched the second How to Train your Dragon movie?”

Matt blinks, surprised by the change in subject. He shakes his head.

Fiona sounds as casual as if they were two friends having a normal conversation. “Why not?”

“Bucky can’t watch it.” The words come out as a whisper, but they come out. “It has too many triggers for him. I don’t want to watch it if he can’t. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“That’s very nice of you.” No lie in Fiona’s heart. “You like Toothless, right?”

Matt nods. Toothless is cool. Karen likes him too.

“What is it you like about him?”

He’s learning to say things without thinking about them beforehand. It makes it easier to talk. The topic does too. Every word out of his mouth is a little louder and more confident than the one before. “Hiccup loves him. They’re best friends. They both get scared but they try hard. They protect each other. They help each other. Toothless is a dragon who can’t fly without Hiccup’s help, but Hiccup doesn’t mind helping him. And at the end of the movie Hiccup needs Toothless’s help to walk. They both have difficulties that can make life hard, but by the end of the movie no one sees them as less because of it.”

“Natasha told me the person who trained you used to hit you,” Fiona says in her usual casual calm voice. “Can you tell me about it?”

Frustration bubbles up. “He trained me. He had to hit me. It’s no big deal.”

“She said he hit you hard enough to break bones,” she says quietly.

Matt finds Lucky with his hands, buries his fingers in the soft fur around the dog’s neck. “He was a jerk, but I learnt. It’s not a big deal. Why are we even talking about this? That was years ago.”

“I’m talking about this because from the symptoms I’ve seen, and what Foggy’s told me, I think it’s likely that you had traumatic events that affected you before this one. Now I’m not saying that this is one of those traumatic events. And I’m not saying that we’re going to delve into your past right now. But I’m worried that you might’ve brought it up with Natasha because it’s worrying you. I want you to know that if that or any other event is worrying you, then you can talk to me or the others about it. We’re here to help you. All of you. Not just the parts to do with the rape.”

He already knows that some parts of him were flawed before all this. He had to address all his cognitive distortions in order to start getting better. Including the ones he’s had for years. Intellectually it makes sense that his past affected him. Bad things happened. But most of those bad things were unfortunate instead of really bad.

His Dad died, and that was really bad, but everything else was just life. His Grandma was strict when she looked after him, but so what, he had to learn his manners somehow. He was bullied for most of school. That happens to a lot of kids. That father got the wrong idea and beat him up, but it didn’t last long, and he was used to being hit. A lot of people left, but that’s not a big trauma like getting raped or his Dad dying. Stick was rough, but he did help him.

“Unless you say any different we’re going to focus on coping skills and processing the rape for now,” Fiona says. “But if there is anything else that you want to talk about, we can focus on that. Do you understand?”

Matt nods.

***

“It may not be regression,” Fiona says at the end of their session after she’s filled Foggy in on the things Matt’s all right with sharing. “I’ve heard anecdotal reports of age regression in some people with complex PTSD. There’s a theory that when you go through a trauma as a child your emotional development stops. Then when you’re in a situation of high stress you go back to that emotional level. But there are other explanations. Any high level of emotion brings out traits we associate with children such as impulsively. Fear in particular is characterised by childlike body language such as trying to appear smaller and behaviours such as crying or repetitive phrases. Matt experiences a lot of dissociation which could be affecting his ability to monitor his own behaviour and so the things he says and does are more inhibited. Or it could be avoidance behaviour. We know that he likes things such as movie characters and books. When he’s hyper-focusing on them he doesn’t have to concentrate on the things that are triggering him.”

Foggy sits on the couch behind Matt. Skin against skin as he clasps his hands together. Something he only does when he’s trying to solve a difficult problem. “So what do I do to help? Do I treat him like an adult, or do I treat him like a child?”

“Treat him like Matt,” Fiona says simply. She’s sitting on the armchair, far enough away from Matt that she doesn’t loom. “Respect his boundaries. Ask permission for things he may not like. Don’t judge his behaviour. If it helps him and it doesn’t hurt anyone then it’s good. Adjust your behaviour to him. If he’s talking in complex sentences, do the same back. If he appears panicked or dissociated simplify your language without being patronising. If in doubt, ask what he wants you to do. And as long as he’s not overusing it to avoid things I’d like to see more conversations about the movie characters he likes. From what I saw today and what Natasha told me, he’s using them to express some very deep emotions and worries that he hasn’t been able to touch on before. That’s very promising.”

Matt pauses in stroking Lucky. He hadn’t realised he’d been doing that. Thinking back it does explain why he got so worked up over Rapunzel not having long hair. If she loses her hair her usefulness goes down. He’s feeling pretty useless himself. He hasn’t even been able to consult on any cases since Natasha got hurt. “What about Cera?”

“When you talked through Cera you were distancing yourself from your emotions, and any potential repercussions that you imagine might come from talking about them,” Fiona says. “Talking through toys or puppets is a very common practice in play therapy when speaking about difficult events or feelings with children. There’s no reason it shouldn’t help in adults as well.”

“This is weird,” Matt says slowly. It is odd, isn’t it? It’s hard to tell. After all he’d thought needing so many hugs was odd until Jarvis talked him through all the science behind the benefits of touch, and Fiona told him that deep pressure hugs were a commonly used therapy for people with sensory issues. He’d thought stimming was odd, but everyone in the tower treats it like any other coping mechanism. “Even before I got too old I didn’t play with toys much.”

“He’s right,” Foggy says behind him. “I’ve tried to drag him into playing pretend before. He’s terrible at it.”

“Some of the patients I’ve heard of most benefiting from play therapies such as sandplay have been adult males often with a military background who are so traumatised by what they’ve been through they have trouble communicating it verbally. In fact because of this countries culture ridiculing men for talking about their feelings, I think there are a lot of adult men out there who could benefit from non verbal therapies. Right now we’re still playing with the mix of therapies that will suit you best. If there’s something you’re really uncomfortable with doing, we won’t do it. But your response to the non verbal therapies we’ve tried is encouraging. And when you are verbal during or following play therapy or another less verbal therapy you seem to find it easier to be open and ask questions. That kind of improvement is what we’re looking for.”

***

Water pulls at his t-shirt. It prickles around his ears. His legs and arms want to flail about despite Bucky’s smooth rough voice reminding him he’s fine. His lungs burn, too scared to breathe in case they suck in pool water. A little water passes over his ear, doing strange things to the sounds around the pool. “Up,” he gasps.

Bucky’s hands are a solid presence on his back and the back of his head. They lever him upright. His feet scrape the bottom of the pool. The water only comes up to his waist. “You did good pal. You lasted longer this time.”

He’s learning how to swim. Bucky’s teaching him. Floating on his back is terrifying, but Bucky and Foggy say it’s a good thing to learn.

“Matty?” Foggy’s voice says from the steps at the shallow end of the pool. “Want to come rest for a bit?”

Matt nods, rubbing the water out of his ear as he wades toward Foggy. Moving through water is another new thing he’s learning. The resistance is odd, and he has to be careful not to smash into the deeper steps since he can’t tell exactly where they are. Eventually he settles by Foggy’s side, shivering in the open air. “Candy’s talking about us.”

Candy, Kate, and Karen alternate between splashing, giggling and gossipping in the deep end. Tony is being surprisingly considerate of Natasha, teasing her lightly and helping her in the pool. She can swim, although her leg is stiff. She gets winded easily, and then Tony needs to help her float on her back like Bucky did to Matt.

“Figures.” Foggy sighs. “What’s that hell beast saying?”

Matt pulls his knees to his chest. The water is warm, which is nice, but it makes the air seem so much colder. Bucky sits on his other side which helps. “She’s talking about the time we all got ill. It was before I got my own bedroom, so you and me were in your bed. Then she snuck in with all her stuffed animals.” He smiles. It was one of his first Christmases there. At the time he hadn’t known how to react, but afterwards those were some of the memories he brought out when he needed cheering up. “She’s trying to make out that you were the one whining for stories and ice lollies.”

Foggy makes an indignant noise. “The lier. She was the one begging for stories.” His voice takes on a high pitched pleading note. “Just one more story Mom. I feel really bad.”

Technically they were both whining as bad as each other. Candy whining for Grimm's fairy tales, and Foggy for some star wars novel he had on his bookcase.

Foggy nudges his side. “Hey, you never told us back then. What was your favourite book as a kid?”

Candy’s favourite was Grimm's fairy tales. The bloodier the version the better. Foggy liked some book about a lion called Leo he’d forgotten the name of. Anna couldn’t find it so he’d had to choose something else. Matt had stalled when asked what book he’d liked when younger, so eventually Foggy mentioned he liked Thurgood Marshall and a book full of his quotes mysteriously appeared a couple of hours later for Anna to read aloud.

“I liked Where the Wild Things Are.” He remembers how the book seemed to echo the frustration he felt when his Dad told him to sit and study when he wanted to run around and do anything but stay still. “And there was a book my Dad read me. The Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse. That one was good.”

“Had a niece I read that one too.” Bucky sounds wistful. “Stevie ate up boys adventure books when he wasn’t drawing or running around picking fights. Me, it was anything vaguely science fiction. Although living in a house of girls I read a fair bit of books they liked too. So did Steve.”

“How about toys?” Foggy asks, curiosity in his voice. “What did they have when you and Steve were growing up?”

“Well us two mostly played pretend. Don’t need any of the plastic junk they have nowadays for that. I had a Tinker construction kit we played with, building all kinds of stuff. I saved up for a Gyroscope spinning top. That was my prized possession for years. Marbles, borrowed my sister’s teddy bear from time to time, and that was it. What about you two?”

Movement as Foggy shrugs. “I was a stuffed animal guy mostly. Candy has my collection now. I used to use them to put on elaborate plays. Some star wars models. Costumes. I was one of those kids who went three days wearing a bear costume and speaking only in growls. I knocked that off when my Mom insisted that if I was a bear now she’d only feed me raw fish. Drama and softball were my life. What about you Matt?”

Matt leans into his knees. “I had a stuffed animal until I grew up. A skunk. The guys at my Dad’s gym gave it to me because he took me sometimes when I was a baby, and well, you can guess why. I called it Honey. I don’t think my Dad liked that name. I tried to explain that I named him that because of a book he read to me about honey badgers, but I’m not sure he understood. My speech was pretty bad at that age. Even he had trouble understanding me at times.”

Movement of water as Bucky leans back against the steps. “You have anything else but Honey?”

“For a little while.” There were toys given by neighbours. Unwanted presents handed off to him by kids at school. Once there was a spinning top with all different colours. He kept that under his bed for three whole weeks before his Dad found it and it disappeared. Distractions weren’t going to help him get into college. “When my Dad had some time he’d help me make games with things like math facts. I really liked them.”

A strange choked sound in Foggy’s voice. Why? “Hey Matty, how old were you when you grew up?”

“Three.” He remembers that day. It was a good day. He read Where the Wild Things Are from start to finish, then another book, then another book. His Dad sounded so proud. The choked sound from Foggy gets worse. Change in Bucky’s breathing too. Did he say something wrong? “Nearly four,” he adds quickly.

Sound of Bucky taking a slow breath. “What happened to Honey?”

“I grew up so I didn’t need him anymore.” What’s wrong with them? “My Dad helped me throw him in the dumpster. Look it’s not a big deal. I learnt to read, so I had books. I was unusually attached to that thing, so it was probably a good thing he threw it out.”

Frustration in Foggy’s voice. “Most people don’t throw away their kid’s only toy when they’re _three_ and tell them to grow up.”

“It’s not like that.” All Matt’s muscles tense. He regrets opening up. “My Dad was good. He was trying to do the best he could for me. But he had to be away a lot, and he needed to make sure I concentrated on my books, because I’d mess around a lot.”

Foggy takes a loud breath, but it doesn’t get rid of the frustration in his voice. “He left you alone when you were three?”

“No.” Matt shakes his head. How is this going so badly? “Not until I was four, when my Grandma died. But he had to. He couldn’t afford a sitter, and the neighbours were scared of him. It’s not like he had a choice.”

Splashing sound as Bucky sits up. “OK. Hey. Both of you breathe. Foggy’s a little wound up right now, but I was enjoying hearing about you when you were a brat sized brat. What kind of games did you play with Honey?”

Is it worth talking about this when Foggy gets upset? He clasps his hands around his legs tight. “We didn’t really play. Mostly I’d talk to him. Tell him stories. Narrate everything around us. I didn’t get speech therapy for a long time. Until I was five my Dad was the only one who understood a word coming out of my mouth. I think I was looking for someone to talk to while my Dad was gone.”

“Thanks for sharing that pal.” Hesitancy in Bucky’s voice. “You look a little tense. Can I put my arm around you?”

Matt nods against his knees.

The arm across his shoulders is warm and solid. “Foggy got upset because it’s unusual to hear about a kid growing up at three and throwing away all their toys. Does that sound unusual to you?”

“Yes,” Matt admits. “But I’m different.”

“How?”

It’s a complex question. One he doesn’t know the answer to. He shrugs. “I just am. And it’s not like I had no toys. I had books, worksheets, the fact games Dad made. Sometimes even the other kids found them fun. If I ever got bored it was because I learnt them fast, and my Dad rarely had the time to make more, and it took me a while to build up the stamina to work solely from books. My Dad was a good Dad.”

Bucky moves to rub Matt’s back. Soothing circles like Foggy does. “It sounds like he did the best he could.”

That’s not the same thing.

***

“What does that say?” Brett asks as they wait for Maria Pearson to enter the room beside theirs for questioning. It’s not a true interview room. Those are too closed off or thick walled for their purpose. Matt needs to be able to listen to her heartbeat. Not strictly legal. They won’t be able to use it as evidence, but it could point them in the right direction.

“Can I see it bud?” Foggy asks from the chair beside his when Matt’s mouth opens and closes with nothing coming out.

Matt clicks his jaw shut and hands the card over. His verbal communication took a huge leap when he started talking to Sam. Fiona thought it might. She said once he started talking to a certain amount of people, each new person would be easier. She said she hoped if they introduced enough people it would make communication with everyone easier. It kind of has, but he still has situations that make it less likely he’ll be able to speak. New situations, places, or people. When he’s stressed. When he’s talking about certain topics. It’s difficult learning the new rules.

A smile in Foggy’s voice. “This is one of mine. The question side asks ‘does Foggy love Matt?’ The answer goes ‘with all my heart.’”

“You sap.” A grimace in Brett’s voice. “You two are sickening.”

Fact cards for him to learn. They’re a little like the sentences he has to read every day in his book. Kate made one saying ‘Is Matt invited to my birthday outing?’ ‘Hell yes.’ Karen’s reads ‘Karen wants to be Matt’s friend forever. True or False.’ ‘True.’ Candy’s goes ‘How much does Candace love Matt?’ ‘Dude there isn’t even a number that high.’ Natasha’s says ‘Do people care about Matt Murdock?’ ‘Yes.’ And Tony’s goes ‘How long can Murdock live at the tower?’ ‘Forever if you want to pup.’

Pepper’s getting him and Foggy the deed to their apartment. They’ll own it which means that no one can kick them out. Matt thinks Foggy talked to them about the night after Natasha was hurt, when Matt talked about everyone leaving or having to leave the tower. It’s a lot to take in.

It’s odd accepting something as big as an apartment, but it’s nice too. He’s still not sure he ever wants to go back to his old apartment. Not with its dead dogs and people knowing where it is. This way he has somewhere to stay. Forever. That’s the word Tony used. It makes strange feelings wriggle in his chest. Fears that something bad will happen to take it away, dancing with something warm he can’t name, mingling with a sad heavy feeling because he thought Hells Kitchen would always be his home, and he’s not sure that’s an option anymore.

In another part of the building Tony, Pepper, Karen, and Jessica talk through Matt’s case with the Captain Darius who runs the station. The man has been nothing but accommodating since the Avengers mentioned the police harassment and mismanagement of Matt’s case on Ellen. Pepper’s right. The public do have power over cases like these.

“You said you were going to deal with Wright when I mentioned it at the fundraiser the weekend after I took in the kid,” Tony growls. “I don’t like being lied to.”

Captain Darius’s apologies sound heartfelt and full of vague promises. A politician’s answer. ‘Tensions were running high,’ ‘Of course he’ll be reprimanded,’ ‘I hope you understand this doesn’t reflect the views of the station.’

Luckily Pepper delivers short, sharp, and somehow still polite sounding demands for measurable concrete actions.

The Captain promises that Wright will be brought in within the next two weeks. He details the measures he’ll take to make that happen. Pepper is good. “We’re all shocked by this,” he adds. “Emotions are running high. Many of the people at this station knew someone who was in Fisk’s pocket. Some of them blame Daredevil. Those who weren’t affected sometimes have opinions about Daredevil’s vigilante activity. What I try to remind everyone is that this ‘Daredevil rape trial’ as they’re calling it, isn’t about Daredevil at all. It’s about Matt Murdock. A man. A victim who should be treated with the same care I expect for any other victim entering this station. Whether he’s guilty of a crime isn’t up to us to decide. Whether Rowe and the others are guilty of a crime isn’t up to us to decide. That’s for the courts. Hopefully with your help we can weed out those who refuse to understand that and return integrity to this station.”

Wet nudges his hand. He jerks in surprise before he recognises it as Lucky.

“This still happen a lot?” Brett asks, a edge to his voice.

Foggy’s hand lands on Matt’s shoulder. “Not as bad as before. Mostly when he’s in a busy place or after something big happened. You with me Matt?”

Matt nods, puts a hand behind his ear.

“Listening?” Foggy asks. “Well I guess that’s better than getting caught up in your head. Although, you did just miss a hilarious story about Brett going up against that cocaine dealer you heard off of central park.”

“Brett tells his funny stories through hand gestures,” Matt mumbles, stroking Lucky’s smooth head. “I - I didn’t miss much more than I usually do.”

Shocked laughter from Foggy. “He’s got you there Brett.”

Brett sighs. “Everyone’s a critic.”

Matt blinks. He wouldn’t usually say that. “Was that rude?”

“Eh.” Some kind of gesture from Brett. “It’s a big improvement on your usual distant politeness mixed with the occasional smartass remark. I like it. Keep it up.”

Natasha’s voice, outside the room next to theirs. “In here Miss Pearson.”

“Here,” Matt whispers, listening to the tap of Natasha’s walking stick. Clint’s quiet footsteps beside her. Pearson’s noisier steps behind them.

“Remember what to do?” Brett asks.

Matt nods. Listen to her heartbeat. Tell Brett when she’s lying or telling the truth.

Natasha eases into the questions slowly. It’s amazing how talented she is at choosing just the right questions to get Pearson to open up. It seems to work, then Natasha makes an offhand question asking what drew her to her chosen profession and Pearson’s voice turns stiff again.

“We’re hoping you can help us,” Natasha says, her voice all sweetness and light. Very different to the Natasha he knows. “A witness saw you interacting with this man yesterday afternoon. We need to ask him some questions in connection to a rape case.”

There’s no point pretending they want him for anything else. Or only want him as a witness. His face is over the news ever since they identified him, much like Matt’s face was.

“I only talked to him for a moment,” Pearson says. “I don’t know him.”

Lie. Matt gives Brett a thumbs down.

Soft vibration next door as Clint gets the message. “It’ll help if you tell us the truth. How do you know him?”

Long pause. “He used to hang out outside my high school. Sometimes he’d be at this club I liked. We talked.”

Truth. A thumbs up.

Shuffling as Natasha looks at some papers. “The witnesses saw you arguing. Could you tell me what it was about?”

Noise of fabric through air. A large gesture from Pearson maybe. “About this. All of this. I mean, sure they say he has really good hearing or whatever, but they raped a blind guy. Who does that? I wanted to give him a piece of my mind.”

Matt hunches his shoulders. Another truth. Thumbs up.

“He passed a package to you,” Clint says, his voice less friendly than Natasha. “What was in it?”

“Some stuff he should’ve given me a long time ago.” Fabric against fabric as she crosses her arms across her chest. “We used to date. Kind of.”

“This is very helpful,” Natasha says soothingly. “Do you know if he’s had any other girlfriends? Someone he might hide out with?”

“Probably.” Pearson’s voice relaxes now that the questions are off her. “Look, nothing I say here is going to be used against me, right?”

“We’re only interested in finding Mr Rowe.” Slight lie in Natasha’s heart-rate. They’re also interested in Pearson’s involvement in the intimidation tactics against Matt, but if they say that now they’ll lose what trust they have. It’s already a risk bringing her in for questioning. With the attack against Matt and Karen they’d decided the information was worth it. Though none of them had expected Pearson to be so cooperative.

“Rowe used to deal drugs outside my school. That’s how I met him. I was going through something hard at the time and I needed an out. He’d give me drugs for sexual favours. That’s how it started. It became something more, but he never stopped trying to get more than I was willing to give. So I ended it. Got clean. Paid off my debt. There’s no doubt in my mind that he’d try the same with some of the other girls he sold drugs to. He liked having power over people.”

Matt’s stomach lurches. He turns his attention to stroking Lucky.

“Matty?” Foggy whispers.

Matt raises two fingers. He can handle it a little longer. After this he gets to go back to the tower. It’s still therapy day despite having to do this. That means movie night. Pepper said he can watch the Princess and the Frog. They’re going to order pizza from Clint’s favourite place. They make Chicago style pizza with the thickest fluffiest base Matt’s ever had.

“Do you know where he might be?” Clint asks.

“I don’t know.” Sound of hair. Pearson shaking her head. “Look I cut my ties with him years ago. I always knew he wasn’t boyfriend material, and that was before I found out he was a rapist and married.” Wet in Pearson’s voice. It seems to be the truth.

Natasha takes on a tone of confusion. “Then why did you meet up with him now?”

“I saw him on the news. I know I should’ve turned him in, but I wanted my stuff back.” Her heart does something funny. Not lying. He’s pretty sure of that. But there’s something in her voice.

“How did you contact him?” Clint’s voice is harder than Natasha’s. Not exactly accusing, but firm enough to let her know she could be in trouble if she answers wrong. He and Natasha work well together.

Pearson’s heart jumps. Surprise. She didn’t mean to let slip she had a way of contacting him. “I have a number you can have. I don’t know if it still works.”

“That’ll be really useful, thank you.” That sunny smile is back in Natasha’s voice. “We’d like to get things cleared up as soon as possible. It could get dangerous for him if he hides out much longer. Vigilante crime has risen in the past month, and not all of them are as respectful of human life as Daredevil.”

“I can give you the places he used to hang out when I was with him. A few names I remember.” She sounds subdued. “Things like that.”

“Here’s a pen and some paper.” Shuffling as the items are passed from Natasha to Pearson. “Thanks again for this.”

Scribbling for a few minutes as she writes it down.

“Thanks,” Clint says when the sound of paper skids across the table again. He doesn’t sound like he means it. “Now, what was in that package he gave you?”

“Nothing.” Slight scraping of metal chair against floor. She’s thinking about getting up. “Just some video he took while we were dating. Look, are we done here?”

Matt can’t decipher her heart. Possibly not lying, but there’s a lot of emotion around this. He shrugs, letting Brett know he’s not sure if she’s lying or not.

Clint’s words are quick and firm. “Does it have something to do with Matt Murdock?”

Thump as Pearson falls back into the chair. Lots of wet to her breathing. Her voice sounds angry, but that’s not quite right. She sounds more upset. “I think I’ve answered enough questions.”

That’s a lot of reaction to hearing his name. She’s sounded upset before in this conversation. It seems to increase every time they mention Matt. Thinking quickly, he pulls out small computer from his satchel, typing a message.

‘I want to speak to her.’

“You’ve been a great help Miss Pearson.” Scraping sound as Natasha gets up. “We have one last thing before it’s over. If you could bear with us for a few more minutes, there’s someone else who’d like to talk to you.”

Click as the door between the two rooms opens. “Mr Murdock, if you please.”

Brett’s and Foggy’s heartbeats race as Matt uses his cane to navigate to the other room. He’s not as good at manipulation as Natasha, but he thinks the poor blind guy act will work better for this. She sounded genuinely angry on his behalf when she’d claimed to shout at Rowe for hurting a blind guy. They could use that.

Clint seems to pick up on the idea too, because there’s a scrape as he moves his chair back from the table. A “Here, let me guide you,” that Matt accepts.

Pearson’s heart races. Her breathing takes on a lot of wet.

Matt waits for Natasha to sit at his side, and Clint to lean against the wall behind him before he starts typing. “What did he give you?” The computer reads the words out to the room in a British accent.

“A video,” she says quietly. “About me. I’m sorry.”

Matt tilts his head to the side quizzically.

“They did it to me.” A pause full of heavy breathing like she can’t believe what she just said. “They did it to me too. Rowe, and his friends Vasquez, Short, Jones, Thomas. I was Rowe’s girlfriend so they knew I wouldn’t complain. They filmed it. I saw where they kept the video. I was hooked on him or the drugs. I don’t know which. I promised I’d stay if they never did that to me again. They didn’t, but over the next six months there were three more videos placed beside mine. So I left. I’m sorry I didn’t stop him.”

Matt mimes taking a deep breath.

Sound of deep breathing as she copies. “I told him I’d rat out everything I knew about him unless he gave me my video back. I even told him I’d go to the police about what happened to me. You’re a lot braver than me. I’m not sure I would’ve gone to the police even if he refused. I just couldn’t stand the thought of more people knowing, seeing what happened.”

Matt flinches. It’s not like he had a choice. If he did, he wouldn’t want anyone seeing that either.

Natasha’s hand appears over his. It helps. “Is there a chance they kept the other videos?”

Pearson gives a laugh that holds no humour. “They treated those things like trophies. There’s no way they’d throw them out. I’m still not convinced Rowe followed through on his deal to give me all the copies. All I know is I’ve got the original hard copy, and he promised he erased the digital one.”

Natasha’s thumb moves over the back of his hand in the same way Foggy does sometimes. “The original hard copy?”

“Right after, they always made a hard copy of the original footage.” A note of disgust in her voice. “Like they were scared of the possibility they’d lose all the gruesome details.”

The original footage. It hits Matt all at once why Natasha is so interested in it. The video comprised of several short clips that don’t show anyone’s faces. It’s unlikely they’d be able to shoot those perfectly all the time. Which means it’s likely the original footage has more identifying information on it.

If they get enough identifying information then the case will be solid even without Matt’s statement. There’ll be no benefit to Baseball Bat harassing Matt, because even if he withdrew his statement it would be unlikely to make a difference to the outcome. Not to mention the several other charges that could be added if they find the videos of other victims. That could change everything.

They wouldn’t try to hurt his friends anymore.


	44. Chapter 44

The girl on the television makes a frightened noise and Matt’s hand spasms closed over Candy’s.

“Hey Matt,” Foggy says softly from his spot in front of Matt on the large couch. “You OK?”

No sound coming from the television. They paused it. He flushes. “I’m fine.”

Foggy takes a deep breath like he’s trying to calm himself. It works. His heart-rate slows down to an average Foggy speed. “You know you can tell me if you’re not fine. It’s OK if you got triggered.”

Frustration teams with the sudden bolt of anxiety that came from nowhere at the frightened noise. “There’s nothing to get triggered about. Those aren’t my triggers.” They aren’t. They finished the Princess and the Frog. Now they’re watching Brave. Merida’s mother got transformed into a bear which was funny. But now something’s wrong with her. She suddenly started acting like a bear, like she might hurt her daughter, and Merida got really scared.

“You’re doing really good trying to communicate with us more Matt,” Sam says from one of the armchairs. The other armchair being occupied by Thor, Natasha, and Clint’s heartbeats which makes less sense to his ears than all the times in the past where Natasha and Clint seemed to sit in the same chair. “It’s OK if you don’t want to talk about this, but if you do it could help us understand. You could use your computer to message someone if you don’t want everyone to know.”

Matt takes a deep breath. Lucky lies sprawled across his and Candy’s laps. He buries his fingers in the dog’s fur. He’s been acting unusual lately and they like him to talk to them about what’s going on in his head so they can try to understand. That’s what Steve told him earlier when he complained about the questions. “I’m not scared. It’s not a big deal. I just don’t like that Merida is scared of her mother.”

“Yeah bud?” The casual note in Foggy’s voice is so fake it hurts to listen to. Matt thinks someone told Foggy to back off with the questions about his past, because he seems to be trying to be a lot less pushy. “How come?”

The words come out rushed and dripping with frustration. He’s not sure if that’s because he doesn’t want to answer the question, or because of what he’s saying. “Because she’s her mother. She loves her, and she’s trying to do what’s best for her. Merida isn’t supposed to be afraid of her.”

“Thanks for telling us Matt,” Sam says in his calm voice. “We can watch a different movie if you’re not comfortable with this one.”

Matt shakes his head. “It’s OK. I like this one.”

“Do you want us to tell you anything about what happens?” Natasha asks sleepily from beside Clint and Thor’s heartbeats on the armchair furthest from the large couch. “So you don’t worry.”

“Yeah,” Clint chirps from beside her. “I know this movie off by heart. I can tell you anything. Do you want to know if her mother’s going to hurt her?”

“No.” That doesn’t matter. There’s no anxiety about whether or not her mother’s going to hurt her. Just… “I want to know if Merida’s going to keep being scared of her.”

“Her mother does the ‘mind turning into a bear act’ again,” Clint says. “Sometimes Merida gets scared for her, but this is the only time she seems scared of her.”

Relief floods through him, though he’s not sure why he was so worked up by it in the first place. “Thanks. We can watch it. I’m ready.”

***

_Sound of sobbing._

_Matt blinks awake, listening. Not the lady upstairs who cries a lot. Dad says she cries so much because her husband left her to raise three kids alone. She didn’t go to college so she doesn’t have enough money to be happy. Her kids don’t work hard to be smart like Matt does so they won’t go to college either. They’ll probably end up in jail, his Dad says. Everyone around here does sooner or later, whether they did anything bad or not._

_All of Dad’s friends at the gym went to jail, but they’re really nice. The system’s set up against them, his Dad said. They don’t have a good job because they didn’t go to college, so they can’t afford to live in safe places, and because there are bad people around them the police think they’re bad too. Then they can’t afford a good lawyer so they go to jail, and when they come out they have to get even worse jobs because that’s all they can get._

_The unfairness makes Matt really angry sometimes. It fills up his chest with a red hot hurt that burns and claws. It’s hard to keep it inside, but he has to. His Dad doesn’t like it when he gets angry._

_He kicks off the blanket, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. He has to jump a little to reach the floor. It’s cold and makes his toes curl._

_If it was the lady upstairs crying he’d tell himself a story about her. That she’s crying magic tears, and once she gets enough they’ll turn into gold. Then she’ll be able to go to college and be happy. Her kids may not work hard, but she does. She has lots of different jobs just like his Dad does. Matt bets she could work hard enough to be smart and go to college if she had the money to go._

_The sobbing sounds like it’s coming from the kitchen. Maybe from the neighbours on the other side of the kitchen wall. He’s only heard them shout before. Never cry._

_There’s a grungy light shining through the kitchen doorway. He tiptoes towards it. Silent, like a ninja. Maybe his Dad is up. He’s not sure if he’ll be disappointed if he knows Matt’s up too._

_Matt peeks around the doorway. His Dad is up. He’s sitting at the table, a pile of papers in front of him. Bills. Matt knows what they look like because his Dad lets him help with the maths on them sometimes. Lots of beer bottles. One, two, three, four. A great big whisky bottle too. That makes five. A easy sum. Matt could do that back when he still had Honey to talk to._

_His Dad drops his hand from over his face, and Matt’s stomach feels like it drops all the way into the apartment below. Tear streaks down his Dad’s face. The sobbing noises are coming from him. He stares at the pile of bills like they hurt him._

_But his Dad never cries._

_Matt stands and stares for a long time, but his Dad never notices him. Eventually he tiptoes back to his room and climbs into bed. His hands fist the blankets tight, that burning clawing feeling pushing at his chest._

_Somehow he’ll make this right. He’ll work hard and go to college. He’ll help his Dad and make him not sad anymore._

Horror consumes him, forcing a scream out of his throat.

“Matt.” A calm voice. Familiar. “You’re in Avengers tower. You’re safe. You’re OK.”

A wall against his back. Carpet underneath him. Suffocating fear wrapping around him so tight he can’t breathe.

“Take a deep breath,” the voice instructs. Slow breathing as they demonstrate. “In, hold, out.”

It takes a while to slow his breathing down. It takes longer for his racing heartbeat to do the same, and the suffocating fog of fear to lift. He’s crouching on the floor. Smell of strange chemicals and blueberries in front of him. Bruce. They’re crouched in the hallway on the communal floor, next to the door of the room with the sand and plastic figures.

Wetting his lips, he forces his breathing to stay slow. “I was - I was screaming?”

“You were,” Bruce says softly. His heat comes from a distance away from Matt. “You sleepwalked out here, and then you started screaming.”

They’d fallen asleep in front of the television like they always seem to on therapy nights. Matt tries to laugh, but his heart’s still squeezed too tight with fear. What was he so afraid of? “It wasn’t even a bad dream.”

Shuffling as Bruce sits down on the carpet. All his movements are slow. How can someone so dangerous sound so nonthreatening? “Do you want to talk about it?”

Matt shakes his head. His heart still beats too loud in his ears.

“Do you want to try going back to sleep?” Bruce asks quietly. “You’re meeting up with Ned and Anna tomorrow, right?”

A part of him is looking forward to that for once, despite his brain telling him a million things have gone wrong recently and this could go wrong too. They’re helping fix some things in Clint’s building. Then they want to take Matt out for ice cream. Sleeping’s a good idea. His anxiety always gets worse the less hours he sleeps. But there’s also something he wants to ask. “Tony said I play like you.”

Confusion in Bruce’s voice. “What?”

“When Sam told me to use the dinosaurs and the Jenga blocks to show the people in my life. Tony said I play like you.”

A heavy sigh. Some amusement in it. “Looks like I need to talk with Tony about confidentiality again. I sometimes do sandtray or sandplay therapy. A lot of my trauma was very early, so I need that kind of non verbal therapy to reach that far back. I don’t know what aspect of play he’s talking about. Do you feel like telling me what you were doing when he said that?”

Matt blinks. What was he doing? “I used the blocks to cover up the dinosaurs.”

“Hiding figures.” Movement. A nod. “That’s one I do a lot.”

Matt clutches his hoodie pocket tight. “What does it mean?”

“I can only tell you what it means to me,” Bruce says. “I do it because a part of me gets scared even though I’m in a safe environment now. Hiding figures I identify with under objects makes me feel safer because they look safe.”

It makes a certain kind of sense. He does want Foggy and the others to be safe. “Foggy thinks my Dad was bad.”

“Yeah?”

“I think so. He kept asking questions.” It helps to talk about this with someone who listens instead of judges. “Then he got mad at him, and he didn’t listen when I told him my Dad was good. My Dad tried the best he could. He was a really great Dad. I had a good childhood. I don’t understand why Foggy doesn’t get that.”

Sound of Bruce shifting. Fabric against plaster as he sits against a wall. “I had a similar problem with Tony and my Mom. It’s ironic since…” Bruce clears his throat. “Anyway, I loved my Mom. I still do. But back then I still held a very childlike view of her. In my mind she was the best mother in the world. She was perfect with absolutely no flaws. He couldn’t understand that. Once he found out what my father did, he was so angry at her for not trying to leave him sooner. It turned out we were both wrong. She suffered my father’s abuse as much as I did. In her mind we were trapped there. She had reasons why she felt she couldn’t leave him. And as for me, I had to learn she wasn’t perfect. I had to face up to the parts of me that were as angry as Tony that she couldn’t keep me safe. It helped turn my love for her into something real. Not childish worship.”

“My Dad was a really great Dad,” Matt repeats dully. “He was a good man. The best.”

“I didn’t know your Dad,” Bruce says softly. “I can’t say whether he was, and I can’t say whether he wasn’t. All I can say is some people can be good, and love you, and think they’re doing all the right things, and can accidentally hurt you anyway.”

***

Matt dodges a dumpster, leaps over a wall, tackles Candy into a hug with a rough kiss on the side of her head, then runs off.

“You jerk!” Candy calls after him. She smells like sweat. Turning her usual warm plastic, blackberry pie scent sour. “When I catch you I’m going to noogy you so hard!”

Giggling, Matt rushes around the side of the building to start his next loop. They’re taking a different route for this mornings jog, through some of the quieter parts of the city. A loop like all their other routes to make up for differing speeds. He tagged along with Bucky for a bit, but with all the solid surfaces it only took a couple of circuits to memorise it.

Ironically perhaps, he’s not one for roughhousing. That takes trust. The only people he’s managed to build that level of trust with is Foggy and Elektra. Even with Elektra it was more professional than fun. She wasn’t afraid to let him have it if he let his guard down. With Foggy he was always careful about not letting his abilities slip, so he couldn’t enjoy himself there either.

So he doesn’t roughhouse, but Candy does. Within an hour of him visiting the Nelson house the first time, she’d made enough lewd comments to make his face feel like it was on fire, and put him in a headlock. Foggy exclaiming “You can’t do that Candy, he’s blind,” and Candy replying “why the hell not?”

Candy’s held his hand and punched his arm, but she hasn’t so much as hugged him yet. He tries to calculate how many tackle hugs he’ll have to give her before she eases up a bit.

“Hey Matt,” Sam says once Matt catches up with him. “How are Karen and Candace getting on?”

Matt grins. He’s soaked in sweat, and hasn’t had this much fun in a long time. “I think Karen is burning more energy laughing than she is jogging and Candy gets even more annoyed every time I pass her.”

“I know the feeling,” Sam says between pants. “I think Steve’s pelvis is one hundred percent healed.”

Matt tilts his head, listening to Lucky’s fast panting by Sam’s side. He’d left him with the man since dogs aren’t so good at parkour. “Think I need to pass Lucky off to Karen and Candy. They’re the slowest.”

“Got a point.” A grin in Sam’s words.

A sound. Matt stumbles to a halt, tilting his head to listen. He’s been this way before, but between his pounding heart and his focus looping around to surprise Candy again he must not have noticed it. A squeaking mewl. High pitched.

Sam’s footsteps skid to a halt. “Matt? What number are you on?”

Matt raises one finger absentmindedly. The area around them isn’t devoid of people. This part of the loop is the most populated. A few people walking to work. But he’s not focused on them. He’s focused on the noise. His feet cross the small street. No cars.

Sam’s feet jog behind him as he enters an alleyway between two buildings. Lucky’s paws follow. “Hey Matt. I’m worried. Can you tell me what you’re doing?” Quick tapping of plastic. Texting the others?

Right. He forgets he needs to communicate sometimes. “There’s a noise.” Smell of grimy plastic and rotten food. An overflowing dumpster. It’s a tiny noise. Fragile. Fumbling in his backpack, he pulls out his folded up cane. Uses it to move some of the crinkling black bags away. The noise becomes louder. A squeaking mewl. Two tiny heartbeats. Reaching into the smell of wet cardboard, he takes one of the creatures out. It’s tiny and cold. “Look.”

Shuffling of clothing as Sam crouches down. His breathing sounds relieved. “Now you’re rescuing kittens. Learn to like apple pie and people are going to start calling you Captain America.”

“I don’t like apple pie. It tastes too tangy.” He places the tiny cold beating heart in Sam’s hands. It took him a while to be convinced he could tell people he didn’t like something even when they served it up, expecting him to eat it. “They’re very cold. I think they were out here overnight.”

Dark in Sam’s voice. The kitten’s meagre warmth gets swallowed by the man’s as he holds it close. “It poured down last night.”

Bucky’s fast uneven footsteps approaching along with Steve’s surprisingly light ones. They sound out of breath. “What happened?”

Matt scoops up the last heartbeat and freezes when his hand brushes more cold fur. Swallowing hard, he uses his other hand to check. Two more tiny bodies, neither with heartbeats. Now he’s searching for it he can smell the cold granite stink of death over the garbage. Someone threw them out with the garbage. They didn’t come to get them even when it rained. People are hard to understand sometimes. He holds out the second kitten. “Buck.”

Bucky takes the kitten like it’s made of glass.

“Steve, can you lift the dumpster? There’s another heartbeat under there. I’m pretty sure it’s not a rat.”

Creak as Steve lifts the dumpster.

Matt’s hand reaches under, taking out a cold bundle of fur that’s not a rat. A third kitten, this one even smaller than the other two. Wrapping both hands around it, he holds it close and tries to share his warmth.

***

“Are they going to be all right?” Matt asks as soon as they’re let back into the room with the kittens.

They had to wait a while as the on call vet at the rescue centre and Bucky did things that Matt couldn’t sense behind the closed door. He can hear the three tiny heartbeats in something solid that smells like metal, plastic, and hot water. A cage? And some kind of heater? They hadn’t been in there the last time they visited Bucky’s rescue centre. It stinks of animals.

The vet is the only one whose heart doesn’t jump in surprise. “I gave them some injections that will help boost their systems. Vitamins. Something to stimulate their appetite. They’re only a week old and they’ve been through the wringer, but given regular feedings and TLC they stand a good chance of making it.”

Tense muscles and movement from Steve and Sam, like they’re having a silent conversation. Fast movement as Sam nods his head yes. More movement as Steve shakes his head no. Sharp wider movement as Sam points. At Matt?

“We’re warming them up right now,” Bucky says. Tapping of plastic as he lightly touches the cage the kittens are in. “After that, someone’s going to volunteer to take them home a while. At this age they need feeding every couple hours. And it’s going to be a while before they’re old enough to find a home for them.”

“They’re so cute,” Karen coos. Candy shuffles at her side. For someone with the biggest stuffed animal collection Matt ever sensed, she’s not that big on baby animals.

Matt blinks, trying to conjure up the memory of cold fur. Get an idea of their shape and size. “What do they look like?”

“Two are boys and one’s a girl,” the vet says. She sounds older. Friendly. “The little boys are a tabby and a solid black. The girl is a tortoiseshell. It looks like she’s going to be an interesting mix of white, ginger, and black.”

Matt fiddles with the strap of his backpack, suddenly realising that he’s talking to a stranger. “Which one - which one is the smallest one?”

“That would be the little girl.” The vet’s footsteps move slowly to the cage. “Did you want to pet them before I take them away?”

“No.” Matt shakes his head. “They’re asleep.”

Steve sighs. Movement as he nods yes. “We’d like to foster them if that’s all right.”

***

Matt slumps his shoulders, directing his gaze up at Steve. “We haven’t finished building the tower. We’re trying to make it as tall as Alice.”

Karen sits close enough by his side for her warmth to mingle with his. Plastic against plastic as she shifts through the lego bricks. “Yeah, you wouldn’t want to disappoint a little girl, right?”

Matt came to Clint’s apartment building with the intention of helping Ned and the others do repairs. He’s not as good at it as Foggy, but he’s had enough experience through Ned to be a good assistant. Then while he was helping Ned fix a sink, the little girl drifted closer and closer until she attached to him like a barnacle. Her mother said she was so shy she probably wouldn’t come out of her room while they were there, but here she is holding onto his arm and hiding behind him from the strangers in her living room.

Steve’s warmth lowers until it’s as close to the carpet as Matt, Karen, and the girl. “Maybe we should help. That way it’ll get done faster.”

Warmth against the side of his head. Alice cups her little hands around his ear to whisper a reply. That was what started this. She’d whispered that she was thirsty while hiding in her bedroom and Matt told Ned to tell her mom. She seems taken with the fact that no matter how quietly she whispers, Matt still hears her.

Matt nods when she’s done. “She says OK, but not Clint because he’ll fall on it, and then she’ll need to start again.”

“I missed the last protest,” a voice says upstairs. “But by golly I’m going on the next one. There’s no way he deserves to go to jail. He looks younger than my grandson.”

“And did you see that picture on Hawkguy’s tumblr of him feeding that kitten he rescued?” Another voice says. “He looked like he’d died and gone to heaven. I have a hard time believing he beat up anyone, let alone the idea of him beating up anyone for any other reason than protecting someone else.”

“Hawkguy has a tumblr? What is a tumblr?”

“Oh Edna, prepare to be amazed. Here, have a look at this. About half of the pictures have Matt Murdock in them. This one’s my favourite. He’s putting braids in that Black Widow woman’s hair. Look how much concentration is in that face of his.”

Cooing sounds. Ick. He removes his attention from the women upstairs to concentrate on arranging the bricks of the tower to best support its height. Being four, Alice isn’t very tall, but he wants to do a good job.

When they’re finished Alice wraps her arms around him. Her mother thanks him with such enthusiasm that it’s probably only through force of will that she doesn’t do the same.

He just did what anyone else would do. He knows what social anxiety can do to your life, so he’s glad he could help, if only for a short while.

***

Anna, Matt, Candy, and Ned sit on a park bench and eat ice cream.

It’s not his favourite type of ice cream, but there’s something about going to central park with someone who cares about you and eating ice cream that makes that not matter. His Dad did this whenever he did something good. Just the act of sitting here makes his chest swell with warmth.

Steve, Clint, and Karen have a hushed conversation about the case a short distance away. The videos haven’t turned up in any of the rapist’s apartments. Old Spice’s girlfriend and Baseball Bat’s wife have denied any knowledge about them. Pearson clammed up when they asked about her involvement in the threats against Matt. She won’t say anything about who she talked to on that day, not even when they suggested it was Baseball Bat. Someone has some kind of hold over her, just like someone has some kind of hold over the guard.

Baseball Bat seems more likely every day. The drug operation he ran was bigger than they thought. Cocaine and Dirt were definitely involved. They found evidence at their apartment. Skittles and Old Spice might’ve been involved. They weren’t raking in millions, but they stashed away a decent sum, mainly by targeting high schools in richer neighbourhoods.

Movement from Candy. Exaggerated slurping sound as she licks Matt’s ice cream.

Scowling Matt shuffles closer to Anna, away from Candy. “Now it’s going to taste of blackberry.”

“Adds flavour.” Wet sound as Candy goes back to licking her own blackberry smelling ice cream. “I did you a favour. Vanilla is boring.”

“I like vanilla.” Matt frowns. His skin feels too hot and itchy, even for the sunny May afternoon. The good mood from this morning and the kittens starts to trickle away.

“Children play nice,” Ned says mildly from the other side of Candy.

Anxiety rears its head. Twisting the tone behind Ned’s words into annoyance. And that’s not fair. They’ve had a good day. Anna’s hugged him so many times he’s lost count. Ned’s put his arm around him and called him son. They’ve both told him they love him, slipping it into the conversation as if it’s a normal fact. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know you didn’t sweetheart.” Anna’s fingers stroke through his hair. “Candace, I expect you to apologise right now young lady.”

Something must show on Matt’s face because Candy sounds subdued. “Sorry Matt.”

He made a fuss. He’s allowed to say things, and even if they’re muddled or odd sounding the Avengers, Bucky, and Foggy won’t get mad. Foggy promised never to leave him. Tony transferred ownership of his and Foggy’s apartment to them so no one can kick them out if they wanted to. But there’s nothing to stop Anna, Ned, and Candy leaving. Ned and Anna say they want to adopt him, but those are just words. They could change their mind.

He’s not sure whether he wants them to adopt him, but he doesn’t want them to change their mind about wanting to. “The Avengers say I’m a good person.”

“You are son,” Ned says, his gruff voice trying for soothing. “You’re a good man. Polite. Brave. Caring. We’re proud of you.”

He’s not sure what part of that sends a spike of anger through him so sharp it hurts. His arm throws the ice cream on the concrete path in front of him hard. A splat. Wet sounds as Lucky laps it up.

“Matt.” Candy’s hand closes around his wrist.

It’s instinct and the sharp spike of anger lodged in his gut that makes him shove her away. He only means to push her a little, but there’s a large movement and loud thump as she falls off the bench.

“Matthew Murdock,” Anna screeches, sounding exactly like the nuns when he did something wrong yet again. Something they didn’t have the time to deal with.

Disappointment in Ned’s voice. That’s even worse. It sounds like his Dad all those times he got distracted when he was supposed to be studying. “Matt…”

He knew this could happen. He knew they could end up hating him. But it still hurts like hell.

***

Matt keeps his arms tightly clutched around his chest and doesn’t let anyone touch him.

He doesn’t talk. Not even when Steve tells him people are worried, and could he tell them what number he’s on. He concentrates on the movement of the elevator underneath his feet, trying to ignore the prickly shaky feeling inside him, and the headache steadily growing between his temples.

Anna, Ned, Candy, Karen, Clint, Lucky, and Steve stand around him in the elevator. Anna makes a soft shocked noise as he jerks away from yet another one of her touches. Lucky leans against his legs.

Foggy’s footsteps upstairs. Faint through the elevator.

Bruce’s voice. “Stimming gets a lot of stigma in American society, even though it’s a very common behaviour at different ages. The average developing toddler stims. Some people stop that behaviour because they don’t need it anymore. Others never stop stimming. And others restart stimming because of stressful events. Stimming is thought to regulate sensory input, and relieve anxiety. We think Matt does it for both reasons.”

“We have some who display such behaviours in Asgard also.” Thor’s voice. “They often go on to become great wielders of magic.”

“That would make sense. There’s a statistically higher number of people with autistic traits in scientific fields than non scientific fields. Autism is commonly associated with stimming, though it’s not the only condition associated with it. Our science seems to be equivalent to your magic.”

“How may I help Matthew in regards to this?”

“Just don’t show any reaction to his stimming. If he starts stimming, then stops, looking self concious, remind him he’s allowed to stim. I think he’s been raised to think it’s a bad thing, but with the amount of anxiety he goes through on a daily basis he needs it now more than ever.”

The elevator doors whoosh open, and Matt steps off onto the communal floor ahead of the others. Freezes.

Sucking sounds near the coffee table by Bruce and Thor. One of the kittens drinking from a bottle. It comes from closer to Thor’s heartbeat than Bruce’s. Thor is feeding them.

Anger pulses through him as he storms around the couch. Moving quickly he snatches up the little heartbeat from Thor’s hands. Grabs the plastic carrier that holds the rest of the kittens, and rushes away from them and down the hallway.

Bruce’s, Thor’s, and Foggy’s heartbeats jump. Foggy’s voice asking “What happened?”

“I’ll take this one.” Steve’s footsteps follow after Matt.

The door to the room with the figures clicks open. He pushes through it, holding the kitten close to his chest. The carpet is soft as he sits down, putting the third kitten in the carrier with the others. It wriggles. Probably still hungry.

“Matt?” Movement of the door as Steve walks through it. Fabric shifting as he crouches down. “I don’t know what’s bothering you or what might help you feel better. Could you help me out here and choose an intervention?”

Matt clicks the door of the carrier shut. There. They’re safe.

“You can use your PECS cards or the computer or sign?”

His head pounds. The plastic of the carrier is cool under his hands.

Shuffling as Steve sits down on the carpet in front of him. His movements stay slow. “I know you don’t trust Thor. That’s something we need to work on. But we agreed when we decided to foster the kittens that everyone in the tower would help look after them. Thor was only feeding them. He won’t hurt them.”

Matt shakes his head. Steve doesn’t know that.

“Me and Buck did an exercise once in therapy.” Only a little tension in Steve’s voice. Sounds like worry. “You take a balloon, then you think about things that make you angry or upset. For every angry and upset thought, you blow up the balloon. Eventually it pops. Then you take a second balloon and do the same thing. Only this time you also talk about your feelings. All the time you talk, you let air out of the balloon. Do you think the balloon popped the second time?”

Another shake. He braces himself against the carpet, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t want to talk.”

“I know.” Steve sounds like he does know. “Before I met Sam I had no one I could talk to about about Buck or any of the other things that happened to me. I had therapists, but they weren’t a good fit. Locking all that stuff away felt good. Like if I kept it compartmentalised I’d stay in control. Sometimes I hated Sam for the way he could drag things out of me, but it helped. I needed to share those things to mourn what I lost and move forward. You need to share your thoughts with someone too. Remember what happens when you try to keep everything bottled up?”

He remembers. “I explode or dissociate or break down.”

“Yeah Matt. If you don’t talk you’re going to explode, like the balloon. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want that to happen.”

Matt doesn’t want that to happen either. His hands spasm on the carpet, wanting to grip the carrier again.. To keep the kittens close and safe. “I don’t want Thor to touch them.”

“I know,” Steve says, voice soft. “But Thor’s a member of this house now. It’d be unfair to stop him helping with the kittens when everyone else can. We can talk rules if you like. We can ask him to only feed them if someone else is in the room until you learn to trust him. Jarvis could monitor his behaviour around the kittens and report to you. You and Thor could even start feeding the kittens together so you can sense that he’s doing a good job.”

It’s a lot of options. “What if he hurts them?”

“He won’t.” Steve’s heart says truth. “I’ve known Thor for a long time. He helped out with Bucky. We even fostered a couple litters of puppies with their mothers from Bucky’s rescue centre. He was good with them. I can promise you he won’t hurt the kittens.”

Steve’s heart says truth, but Matt still finds it hard to believe. His fingers move to pick at his hoodie. “He _could_ hurt them. You don’t know he won’t. He’s been gone for months. He could’ve changed.”

“Matt.” Steve sighs. “Why do you think he’ll hurt them?”

“People hurt others. It happens all the time.” The kittens. The men who tried to hurt Karen. Even Matt hurt Candy.

“Not all the time.” Steve’s voice turns softer. “Do I hurt anyone?”

Natasha read him a newspaper article about a bank robbery Steve and Sam stopped, swearing him out for returning to the field so fast when the muscles around his pelvis still needed building up. “Not anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“Does Bucky hurt anyone?”

Matt shakes his head sharply. “Never.”

“Clint?”

“Sometimes by accident, but he always apologises.”

Steve names everyone who lives in the tower except Thor and Matt, then names Anna, Ned, and Candy too. Candy’s the only one he’s not sure about. She can play rough sometimes. But he doesn’t think she means to hurt so it doesn’t really count.

“You’re all nice,” Matt tries to explain. “But everyone else isn’t.”

Steve hums thoughtfully as if he’s considering it. “Can you try treating this like your cognitive distortions? Try giving me some evidence why you think everyone else hurts others.”

“I got hurt.” Matt has good evidence this time. Steve isn’t going to be able to say it’s not true. “And thousands of people watched it. Not a few. Not hundreds. Thousands. Probably hundreds of thousands. Wright said he watched it. That he got off on watching it. The man who wanted to hurt Karen said the same thing. I’ve heard people talking about it. When I was in the limo coming to the tower I heard someone watch it. Clint said someone sent him a screenshot, so they’re still circulating it even now. Why would they do that if they didn’t want to hurt?”

The tenseness in Steve’s voice transforms into anger. “Wright said that?”

He hasn’t managed to tell them that detail before. Matt nods.

A slow deep breath. The anger decreases. “Can Jarvis send that clip to Brett?”

Matt shrugs. “OK.”

“I don’t know why people watched it,” Steve says. “From what I heard a lot of people clicked on it without knowing what it was. Some people stopped watching once they figured out what was going to happen. Others didn’t. I know you’ve come across a lot of assholes recently. I have too. It makes you lose faith in humanity. But you’ve met good people as well. There are good people in the world, and there are bad people. I like to think the good outweigh the bad.”

“I used to too.” It’s a faint memory. “Before all this. I tried to remind myself of that.”

“Yeah? Can you remember how you did that? Maybe it’ll help now.”

Matt frowns. It’s like trying to remember a different lifetime. “I used to make myself listen for laughter instead of screaming, sirens, and crying. The screaming, sirens, and crying were always there, but if I listened closely the laughter was there too.”

“We can try that.” Movement. Steve nods his head. “And we can tell Fiona. She might have some ideas. As for Thor, maybe just try looking for the good things he does instead of expecting the bad. Has he done anything bad?”

Matt thinks for a long moment, then shakes his head.

“Then don’t you think you ought to give him a chance?”

Matt grudgingly nods.

***

Matt places the objects in the sandtray, taking care not to touch the gritty pieces of sand.

Make a tray showing your relationship with Anna, Ned, Candy, and Foggy. That’s what Fiona asked him to do. She told him not to think too much about it. Just choose the figures that call to him. Place them where he feels they should go in the tray.

They might not do a sandtray every session. Fiona doesn’t have the level of training to be completely comfortable in the technique. One of the other therapists who works at the tower has over fifteen years experience in sandplay and sandtray therapy, so she may need some time to consult with him after each session to check she’s leading Matt down the right path.

The figures for Ned, Anna, Candy, and Foggy are all made similarly. A set. A mother in a dress. A father with the same plastic features. A little boy and a little girl. They’re poseable unlike a lot of the other figures. He stands them together in the sand first, then changes his mind and finds a little wooden bench for them to sit on instead. Ned and Anna on the ends. Candy and Foggy in the middle.

They feel exposed. He debates building something over them a moment, then finds a wooden house to sit behind them instead. It’s not like they’re real, but the idea of them having somewhere to retreat to helps. There’s a whole box of miniature objects to add. He gives them each an ice cream. He deliberates a moment before giving Anna a shotgun and pistol. Ned gets a spanner. Candy gets a teddy bear. Foggy gets a bat.

Another shelf has landscape pieces. He runs his fingers over their shapes and braille labels before choosing a pond, some flowers, and a tree to go around the bench. The house and bench gets surrounded by fence.

Then it’s his turn. The figure he picks says demon on its base in braille, but it’s smaller than the child figures of Foggy and Candy. It’s a thin sorry feeling demon. He can feel its emaciated ribcage, and its twisted features. For a moment he considers setting it on top of the house, but that doesn't feel quite right. He makes a small hill in the middle of the sandtray, away from the other figures, then sets a plastic mountain on top of it, and the demon figure on top of that.

Matt traces his fingers lightly over the objects before nodding. "I think it's finished. But I don't know that it means anything."

"That's fine," Fiona says calmly. "Can I see?"

She said she'd like to look at the tray from his position once he's finished, and to take a photograph. He shuffles to the side. Making it was easier than he thought it would be. After several self conscious minutes placing the miniatures, it felt like he'd entered a trance, placing things where he thought was right. Now he's finished the self conscious feeling rises again.

No words of judgement from Fiona as she seems to look at the tray. "It's OK if you don't know, but could you tell me what you feel is going on here?"

Sometimes he might not know why he put a certain piece in a certain place. She said that was fine. But he thinks he can say something about the tray. At least, he's pretty sure he can if he doesn't think too hard about what he's saying. "Ned, Anna, Foggy, and Candy are getting an ice cream." That seems obvious. There has to be a reason why he gave them each a ice cream.

Shuffling as Fiona kneels by the tray. "What about this guy on the mountain?"

That's easy. "He's keeping watch. Keeping them safe."

"Can you point to who is who?" Fiona asks. "Just to make sure I'm not assuming anything."

Matt dutifully touches each figure in turn, saying who they are.

"Why does Anna have a gun?"

She has two guns. "To keep her family safe."

"What do you think the guy on the mountain thinks about the people on the bench?"

It's a complicated question. He should try and answer. Try speaking without thinking about what he's going to say. He's getting better at that. "He wants them to be safe. To be happy."

"Is the man on the mountain happy?"

Matt shakes his head.

"What do you think would make him happy?" Through all her questions Fiona sounds interested, like she's listening intently, but completely void of any judgement. It makes it easier to answer.

"Nothing will make him happy. He'll never be happy." There was a moment he thinks he might've been happy. This morning with the kittens. Sitting at the back of Sunday mass with Steve, Anna and Ned. The little girl Alice seeing him as someone who could help her instead of someone who's useless. They feel very long ago.

"How do the people on the bench feel about the man on the mountain?"

A spark of something fierce fills his chest. "Foggy says he's never going to leave."

"What about the woman on the bench?"

Anna. His voice lowers to a hushed whisper. "Maybe she'll leave?"

"Yeah?" That interested tone in her voice. No judgement. "Can you say some more about that?"

This is strange. It feels like Fiona's managed to split his heart open, and every word is the contents leaking out. His mind screams at him to close it back up. Stop talking. "She- she-" shaking his head he signs 'love' then the name-signs for Candy, Foggy and Ned. Signs 'family.' Jarvis translates.

"And where do you fit into this relationship?"

Another shake. "I don't."

***

Matt squishes the Koosh ball between both hands, concentrating on the uncomfortable feeling of the rubber strands stabbing his palms.

Around the kitchen table Foggy, Anna, Ned, and Candy read his note. Fiona wrote it for him. They decided together the things he needed to say to help them understand. They're confused, she says. He doesn't always explain himself well. It's better to be open and try to communicate with them, than to push them away, which is what she says he's been doing.

He's not sure communication is the better tactic. He's tried opening up before. It rarely ends well. Pushing away people sounds a lot less painful than counting down the moments to when they're going to leave.

He'd vetoed a lot of things she suggested telling them, but allowed enough things to stay that his stomach turns over as they read the letter.

I'm sorry for pushing Candy, it starts.. Sometimes when I get happy I also get scared because I think it won't last and you'll leave. That's why I got angry, and that's why I reacted so strongly when Candy gripped my wrist. I also don't like anyone gripping my arms or legs, so I'd prefer if you didn't do that. I hope I didn't hurt you. From Matt.

The others are gone, including the kittens. Matt tries not to panic at that. Steve said he’d look after them.

“Sorry for grabbing you,” Candy says once the silence grows so loud it hurts his ears. “I just thought with how you acted this morning that you wouldn’t mind.”

This morning during the run he’d purposely acted a little rougher than he usually would with Candy to try and get her to act normal around him. His stomach turns over as he realises that if she did act her usual boisterous self, he’d panic like he did when she gripped his wrist. “I wanted things to be like they were. But I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. I’m really really sorry for hurting you.”

Candy scoffs. “Like you could hurt me. I don’t care about your fancy ninja skills. I’m the brawler in this family.”

Matt gives a hesitant smile that doesn’t last long on his face. He’s the one who taught her how to throw a punch after she dislocated her thumb clocking her classmate’s jaw after the guy felt up her friend. He’d also told her to lay off the fighting, but that she didn’t listen to. At least she’d kept her fights mostly contained to the school yard.

“Open communication.” Foggy sounds proud. “This is what I like to see bud. We get a lot further this way than your stubborn silences.”

“Honey,” Anna starts. Wet in her voice. “Sweetheart. We’re never going to leave you. If anyone tried to make us I’d tear their abdomens open and-”

“Anna.” An exasperated note in Ned’s voice like they’ve had this conversation before. “Honey.”

Grasp of skin against skin. Anna squeezes Ned’s hand? “Ever the pacifist. I’ll threaten them with my guns. Do you have a problem with that?”

“You can use any amount of force if it means keeping one of ours safe.” A tenseness to Ned’s voice that sounds very different to his usual calm gruff tone. “I’d just rather you didn’t use that kind of language around the kids.”

“Please.” Creaking as Candy leans back in her chair. “I just wrote an article about a gang massacre. Foggy and Matt have seen major shit, and they live in a house full of superheroes who beat up people on a regular basis. I think we can handle some maiming talk, even if it is creepy as hell that Mom’s the one talking about it.”

“So creepy.” Shuddering noise from Foggy.

“I’m allowed to have my hidden depths,” Anna says dismissively. “Matt, sweetheart. When Franklin and Candace were young, we used to set aside a day a week when me and Ned would take them someplace special. All of this has made us reevaluate what’s important in life, and we’d like to start that up again. And this time we’d like to include you. One Sunday we’d take Candace somewhere, you the next, then Franklin, then on the fourth Sunday we’d spend the day with all three of you. Does that sound like something you’d want?”

Yes, but… “I wasn’t good. I wasn’t polite or caring, and I’m not brave.”

“Son, you are all those things.” No lie in Ned’s heart. “And even if you weren’t, we’d love you anyway.”

“Hey.” More creaking of wood. Candy tilts her chair back. “If Mom didn’t stop loving Foggy when he grew hippie hair and decided to become a fancy pants lawyer, it’s not like she’s ever going to stop loving you.”

“Or when Candy got suspended five times for fighting,” Foggy shoots back.

“Or when Foggy came home at two am drunk out of his mind and stinking of weed.”

“Or when Candy-”

“Franklin, Candace.” Firmness in Anna’s voice. “As much as I love you, if you want any home cooked meals for the rest of this month, I suggest you stop that now.”

“Jeez Mom, harsh.” Some kind of movement from Foggy. “Well Matty, Candy will take it easier on her Candiness. We’ll all love you no matter what. Remember the cards we made you? Pop quiz. I know you love those, you nerd. Do I love you?”

Matt places the Koosh ball on the table. “With all your heart,” he recites obediently.

“How much does Candy love you?”

He runs his finger over the table, feeling out the differences in texture. “Dude, there isn’t even a number that high.”

“Full marks. We’ll make some more cards for Mom and Dad.” Pride in Foggy’s voice. “Anything else you want to tell us while you’re in a talking mood?”

“I know I’m acting weird.” This isn’t exactly something he wants to say, but it’s something that’s been eating up at him for a while. Maybe Foggy can help. “But I don’t remember how to act. I don’t know who I am anymore. If people point out when I’m acting odd, and remind me how I used to act instead, maybe I can relearn how to act that way.”

“Buddy.” Foggy’s footsteps walk around the table. Wood against wood as he pulls a chair close to Matt’s side and sits on it. “Remember what Fiona told us. Our focus isn’t going to be making you exactly as you were. You’ve tried doing that yourself, and it always ended badly. There are going to be things about you that are different. That’s fine.”

He remembers the confidence he took to the courtroom and the streets. The easy knowledge that he had power in his fists that would help him escape real harm. The way it broke a little with Nobu. The way all those stress marks from Nobu shattered during those seven hours. The way he tried to pull himself together, only to shatter again at the video. Dizziness rushes through him. “I don’t want to be like this. I want everything to be how it was.”

“I know bud.” Foggy’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Look, you’re in the middle of your recovery right now. Me, Fiona, and everyone are trying to help you through things so you end up more stable. Keep working with us and you’ll find yourself in an easier mental space to cope with. I don’t know when that’s going to happen, or what it’s going to look like, but we’ll get there.”

Keep working with them. That means keep talking to them. Keep telling them what’s in his head and what he wants or needs help with. His mouth opens and closes a few times before the words come out. “I don’t feel well. I haven’t since before the ice cream Fog. Too hot, and my head hurts. I think maybe it’s withdrawal again.”

“OK Matt.” Foggy sounds like he doesn’t mind. “We can fix that.”


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go to end notes if you want a quick (spoilery) summary of the main triggers in this chapter.

Matt sits at the top of the tallest tower in the jungle gym, and concentrates on the sound-waves that echo back at him from the ceiling a little way above his head. If it was ordinary ground below, the drop would kill him. As it is, he doubts even his superior awareness of his body’s positioning could outmanoeuvre the soft foam-like material below.

He wonders if that was why Tony added it.

Gentle huffing. Grasping of skin against plastic. Movement as Clint hauls himself up onto the small platform next to Matt. “Hey Matt, fancy seeing you here. Well, actually Foggy kinda sent me, but you guessed that, right?”

Matt nods, tense. He’d guessed that. It’s Monday. He was awake most of the night worrying about court starting again. Court went about the same as it usually does. Then they’d walked through the mass of reporters back to the car, and everything changed. “Foggy won’t let me listen to the news. He says to wait to see what Fiona says.”

“That could be sensible. I mean, yeah it sucks to be told what to do. But it’s going to suck even more to listen to that pair of idiots.”

Matt shakes his head. It won’t. “I already had to deal with people yelling questions about it. It’s not going to get worse than that.”

“Bro, trust me on this. It’s pretty fucked up. Pepper had to talk Steve out of planning a press conference to challenge them. He’s no longer allowed to make speeches when he’s angry after the soup kitchen incident. Although sometimes I think it goes well. Like the time some homophobic reporter asked him about his stance on gay marriage and same sex romance, clearly expecting him to be against it, and he turned around and kissed Tony, and said ‘does that answer your question?’ and stormed off. Slash fans around the world rejoiced.” Clint clears his throat. “Anyway, Pepper and Steve are drafting a statement that will show our stance on it without being ‘overly confrontational.’ Apparently that’s a bad thing? My job is to take some photos of you doing physio to remind people that yeah, this dude was hurt. If that’s OK?”

Matt shrugs, tracing the rough plastic beneath him.

“You wanna talk about the other thing?” Clint asks, softer. “The one that made you run off?”

Foggy tried to distract him with a movie. Despicable Me. It didn’t last long before he ran for the elevator. “It was supposed to be funny, but I didn’t like that she threatened to shut them away in a box. I didn’t like that the girls wanted a family, when in reality they were very unlikely to get one. And I hate how much I keep getting emotionally involved in kids movies.”

“Hey,” Clint sounds offended. “Despicable me is a masterpiece for all ages, same with Brave. They’re not kid’s movies.”

“Says the guy who regularly plays with plastic dinosaurs.” Matt runs his fingers over the smoother plastic edges of the platform. “If you want Little Foot and Petrie, I left them on the ground with Lucky.”

“Maybe later.” Shuffling as Clint hangs his legs over the edge of the platform. “Me, I sometimes have problems with Dumbo when the Elephant gets painted as a clown and ridiculed. And Pinocchio when he thinks he’s become an actor, and really becomes trapped. Running away to join the circus wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. You got any idea why these films are triggering you?”

“I don’t know.” It’s partly a lie. He really doesn’t know why he freaked at Brave. He might have some idea about the box. And “Maybe part of me did want a family after my Dad died. But ten years old, disabled, with mental health issues and behaviour problems. It was never going to happen.”

“I get that. Eight years old when my parents died, with an older sibling. Had my hearing back at the time, but it was on my records I’d had problems with it. And my God, talk about anger issues. I was a handful. We were lucky we got foster parents, but they weren’t coping and our social worker told us if the placement broke down we’d need to be separated. So we ran away.” Movement as Clint swings his legs in the air. “Would’ve clocked them in the jaw if anyone suggested I wanted a family again after the crap fest my first one was, but it’s like instinct. You want someone who cares. You never stop looking for that. Think the first time I had an adult really care about me was the guy who recruited me to Shield. Then I got Natasha. Then all these other guys. We’ve been living in each other’s pockets for over a year now. Family isn't just the one you’re born into.”

“Foggy’s family,” Matt says, purposely making his voice more confident than it wants to be. “He promised he’d never leave.”

“Nat said the same thing.” A sigh before there’s movement of Clint lying down. “It’s pretty nice, huh?”

Matt nods. It is pretty nice to have someone who won’t leave.

“Matt? Don’t hit me or anything,” Clint says hesitantly. “But in Brave when you reacted to Merida being scared of her mother. Were you ever scared of your father?”

Matt groans. “Don’t start that too. My Dad was good. He wasn’t abusive in any way, shape, or form. He was the best Dad in the world. I think only Ned comes close to how good a father he was.”

Hair against plastic as Clint turns his head. Towards Matt? His voice is soft and careful. Different to his usual fast speech. “That’s not answering the question Matt.”

***

“Today our son, Justin Fletcher was indicted as one of the Daredevil rapists.” The voice coming out of the television is wet. Upset. Male. Fifties maybe? “Our son, the captain of his college basketball team. This is a mistake. Our boy had a good chance of entering the NBA draft next year. He’s a good boy. He was an unwilling participant. Bullied into it by dangerous people. He’s as much a victim as Daredevil. More even, since Daredevil has healed from his injuries, and my son never will. Daredevil bit his thumb off. The damage is so extensive that his doctors think he’ll never play basketball again.” Wet sound.

“He’s crying,” Foggy says from next to him on the large couch. “The fucker is crying. And his wife’s standing by his side with this blank look on her face, like she’s at a Sunday lunch or something.”

More wet in the man’s voice when he speaks again. “We understand that Daredevil was in a desperate situation. So he attacked my son, the most passive member of the group. My son’s bright future is over. His life is ruined. But he’s already forgiven Daredevil for lashing out. So have me and my wife. We only ask that people remember my son is no criminal. I’m positive the trial will show that. We’ve already suffered enough. Please don’t let this media circus ruin even more of our lives by spreading lies about my son.”

Matt presses himself further into the corner of the large couch, unable to name all the feelings swirling around inside him. Foggy is a warm presence at his side. On the other couch, Natasha’s and Bucky’s hearts beat faster than they should.

“I might need to leave in a minute,” Bucky grits out. “I’ve seen it before, but it’s a lot to take. I don’t get how those idiots believe that.”

A thoughtful note in Natasha’s voice. “The mother doesn’t. Look at her body language. That’s acceptance. I’ll bet a weeks tea privileges that she knew what her son was long before he was arrested.”

Foggy’s hand touches his hair. Matt flinches. “Sorry Matt. What are you thinking about all this?”

It takes a long time to gather the words. His voice sounds strangely hoarse. “The video didn’t show the thumb?” It must not have. Otherwise the others would’ve known about it.

Foggy’s hand moves over his hair, like Anna does sometimes. It’s nice. “No bud. It didn’t show that. It’s hard to tell given the lack of faces, but Jessica and the police say he’s gone for most of the video. That’s probably why they think they can get him off the hook.”

“I think - I think he left after.” That would make sense. None of his fragmented memories seem to contain Bubblegum, though it’s hard to say. “What - what did it show?”

“Two acts of rape from him. I’m not going to specify them because I don’t think you can cope with hearing that right now,” Natasha says, calm and composed from next to Bucky. “And it shows he was part of the physical assault. His shoes are very different to the others.”

The couch cushion underneath Matt and Foggy jumps as Lucky scrambles his way onto it. He nudges Matt in his usual concerned way.

Matt’s hand shakes as he scratches behind the dog’s ears. “Then they should know. Baseball Bat told him to the first time. But he didn’t need… It didn’t take much con-convinc- and the second time - th-that was. He made - he made a ch-choice. It was - it was for the wr-wrong re-reasons. That means - that means it’s his f-f-fault.”

“I know buddy. The guy’s talking out of his ass.” Foggy’s hand moves between the corner of the couch and his back, rubbing circles. “How about we change channels for a bit. Do something completely different. Fiona's been and gone. I don't think you should go out today. So that means you can do whatever you want for the rest of the evening."

"I should go out. My contract this week says for me to concentrate on getting used to public places. That way I can go to Kate's birthday outing." Kate's birthday was on the 7th of May, two days ago. Matt sent her a congratulations message on his computer. Natasha helped with the emoticons. She's had parties with her friends and family, but she said she wanted to wait to celebrate with the Avengers until after Matt's trial finishes. That way they can celebrate her birthday and the end of his trial at the same time.

Assuming they don't convict him and decide to haul him away into custody all at once.

"You're doing great at that already pal." Bucky's voice is still rougher than it should be. Annoyed about the parent's statement. "And we'll be going to a karaoke restaurant. The rooms are closed off. Pretty soundproof too. Except for the waiter there'll only be people you know in there."

"So take today to chill," Foggy says. "Unless prosecution decides to rebuttal, I think we've only got a few days left of trial, not including jury deliberations. Let's take things easy, and when you're home free you can spend more time pushing yourself. In a wholesome therapeutic manner. Not a stubborn Murdock manner. So bud, what's going to make you feel better?"

Matt's shivering hands play with the fur around Lucky's neck. He's not really anxious. He's closer to sad. Annoyed too. What did they mean they forgave him? He didn't do anything that needs forgiveness. Foggy, Fiona, Steve, and the others told him so. "Cookies. And the weighted blanket. And - and deep pressure."

Foggy's arms wrap around him without complaint. Then there's Bucky's uneven footsteps moving around. The weight of the blanket over his legs. Hollow tin sound of the container of cherry cookies Anna brought yesterday set beside Foggy.

"Hey," Foggy says once Matt is curled into his shoulder, the weighted blanket over both of them. "We should watch something easy going. How about Legally Blonde?"

Matt hauls the flopped Lucky more centrally over t\he weighted blanket. The added weight of the dog makes the pressure over him seem even more relaxing. "OK."

Slight surprise in Foggy's heart. "OK? Just OK? No argument that you've seen it a dozen times. That you know it off by heart. Threats to speak every character's line before they say it."

"I'm a bit - um - tired. Heavy. Something familiar is good." Matt nestles as close into Foggy's side as he thinks he can get away with. One of his hands grips a handful of his friend's shirt. The scent washing over him says home. Strawberry shampoo. That fancy coffee Foggy likes so much. Jelly donuts. Cinnamon bagel. Heavy butter. Strawberry jam. All the little details that make up Foggy and tell him he's safe.

Four minutes into the movie Matt realises they haven't watched this since before the Daredevil reveal when Foggy breaks into hysterical laughter. Natasha's heartbeat comes from close to their feet, and Bucky's is gone from the room. It sounds like Natasha's laughing too.

"Red," Foggy quotes the character on the television who just spoke. "The colour of confidence."

Just for that Matt starts saying the character's lines with them.

***

Matt has to hold himself a little upright to copy the accent of Elle's dad. "Oh, sweetheart, you don't need law school. Law school is for people who are boring and ugly and serious. And you, button, are none of those things."

Foggy laughs breathily. It's one of his favourite parts of the movie. "You should do voices for the others too."

Matt skips the next few lines in favour of burying himself into Foggy's side again. "Not gonna."

"Oh come on Matt. Please?" Foggy pleads. "You did once when you were drunk. They were scarily accurate. I still say you should put 'can do a perfect Reese Witherspoon voice' on your resume."

Matt hums noncommittally.

The buzzing of Foggy's phone ruins the good mood. "Shit it's Marce. I gotta get this bud."

Matt grumbles as Foggy takes his warmth away, then tenses. A phone call from Marci. What couldn't wait until tomorrow? Did they find the last guy? Does he have to go to another line-up? Foggy's hand ruffles his hair before his feet move around the back of the couch.

A few moments then the static feeling of anger fills the room. Foggy’s voice booms. “He said what?!”

Tilting his head, Matt focuses on the conversation. Marci’s voice. Strained. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Look, he doesn’t have to do it. Just ask. He says no, then I’ll say no. We move on. The police will catch Rowe eventually.”

Foggy speaks through gritted teeth. “I can’t. With Fletcher’s parents statement to the press. It’s not a good time.”

Matt pushes himself up on the couch, trying not to dislodge Lucky from his lap. “Fog.”

“Look I’ll call you back later Marce.” Click as Foggy hangs up. His footsteps walk back around the couch. The cushion jumps as he sits beside Matt. “You know, eavesdropping is a bad habit.”

“You know,” Matt says, copying Foggy’s tone. “Talking about people behind their backs is a bad habit.”

Foggy sighs. A hint of his earlier anger still in his voice.

“Just tell me Fog.” Matt tries to look like he hadn’t been on the verge of a breakdown thirty minutes ago. “Everyone’s telling me I need to get used to making decisions again. And I’ve made a lot of progress with that. Can’t you let me decide?”

Natasha stays silent and still by Matt’s feet. Listening.

“It’s Dennis Short,” Foggy says eventually. Reluctance in his voice. “He says he knows where Rowe is hiding. He told the DA he’d give him up.”

So far all of them refused to give any information about any of the group not in custody. Matt furrows his brow, confused. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Movement as Foggy shakes his head. “He says he’ll only tell you.”

***

Matt walks into Rikers with Bucky and Natasha either side of him, Foggy taking the lead, and Clint bringing up the rear. There’s probably too much xanax in his system. Fear still prickles at the edges of his nerves.

This is the right thing, isn’t it? Sometimes he asks Steve about tactical things like this, but Steve, Thor, Tony, and Bruce won’t be back until late from a mission. It seems like it’s the right thing to do. If Old Spice tells him where Baseball Bat is, it’ll all be over. They’ll all be caught. His friends will be safe. Maybe they’ll find the other videos at the same time, then they’ll be even safer.

There’s always the chance one of them might act from behind bars. They think there are still members of Baseball Bat’s team of drug dealers out there. And someone as connected as Baseball Bat seems to be would be able to call in favours. But if they take away the importance of Matt’s cooperation by adding the other videos into evidence, they take away the motive to threaten Matt and his friends.

Finding Baseball Bat will help.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Foggy asks not for the first time as Natasha’s footsteps disappear into the room that holds Old Spice’s heartbeat. The door echoes metal when it moves. Air currents flow through it. Not a solid door. Metal bars, like a cell door.

Matt shakes his head. Words choke in his throat. Perhaps because of the guard standing outside the barred door. Perhaps because he can smell Old Spice’s scent from here. His hands shake as they form the signs. ‘I want’ ‘finish.’ It’s what he said before. This won’t end until Baseball Bat is behind bars.

Foggy sighs, but then his hands rest on Matt’s shoulders. “OK buddy. If this is what you want to do, then we’ll do it. Just - if you want to leave the room, even just to catch your breath, you can do that. Let’s try to keep this from ending up like the last time you heard this guy. I hate seeing you hurt.”

“You’re in control here Matt,” Clint says, sounding a lot more serious than he usually does.

“And we’ll be with you through all of it.” Bucky’s heart beats truth. A promise. “He’s not going to touch you.”

Natasha’s footsteps tap their way towards them before Matt can decide what he feels about all this. “He’s telling the truth. He’ll tell Matt how to find Lawrence Rowe.”

***

“I said I’d tell Murdock,” Old Spice says. “Not the Avengers.”

There’s a heartbeat in the seat next to Old Spice. Smell of perfume. A woman. His lawyer. “My client stated his terms to the ADA. He’ll tell Mr Murdock how to find Mr Rowe. Mr Murdock may record the information and share it with whoever he wishes. In return the ADA will offer my client a reduced sentence.”

“Hell no!” Foggy yells at the same time Bucky growls “If you think we’re leaving him alone, you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

“Fine.” A smile in Old Spice’s voice. It makes Matt’s skin crawl. “I’ll let one of you stay.”

Foggy wouldn’t be safe here with just Matt. Bucky’s the strongest fighter in the room, but there’s anger pouring off him in waves. The hearing may have cleared him of all charges, but if he lashes out he could get in trouble. Natasha’s the calmest, but Matt heard the lewd comments when she checked if Old Spice was telling the truth. She may not react, but Matt doesn’t like hearing her objectified. And there’s a part of him that points out she’s a woman who he might’ve been attracted to before all this. He doesn’t want her to see him if he loses it.

Swivelling in his chair, he points at Clint, ending the arguing going on around him.

“You sure pal?” Bucky asks from the seat beside his.

It takes a long time to remove his grip from Bucky’s arm. The signs are jagged. ‘I want’ ‘finish.’ He just wants all of this over with.

Foggy’s hand squeezes his shoulder. He leans into the touch. “We’ll be right outside.”

Listening to them leave makes his chest feel hollow.

Thump of Clint taking Bucky’s chair. Click and whirring sound as he sets up some kind of recording device. “So Short, spill. How do we find Rowe.”

That smile is still in Old Spice’s voice. It reminds him of crooned words and praises. Pain. “Can’t he ask me that himself?”

Clint’s words come from between gritted teeth. “You know he can’t.”

“Right. Selective mutism.” There’s a note in Old Spice’s voice that reminds Matt of a cat playing with its prey before he kills it. Clink of the chains attached to the man’s cuffs. “How could I forget? Strange. He was a talker when I spent time with him. At least, at first.”

Swallowing hard, Matt grips the chair beneath him. The metal is cool in his hands. Take a deep breath. Stay calm. He can’t get to him. All Matt needs to do is sit in this chair for long enough for Old Spice to spill what he knows.

Light tap on the back of his hand. Instinctively he lets go of the chair to turn his hand over. Plastic placed on his palm. Familiar. His fingers trace over it. Ducky. How did Clint sneak him past security? Matt closes his fingers over the dinosaur, gripping it tight.

“Get on with it Short,” Clint says with no hint of the exchange in his voice. “Or me and Murdock are leaving.”

“You know,” Old Spice says as if he didn’t hear Clint. “I was the one to post the video. The others think it was Thomas. The way he runs his mouth about everything he does, it’s not surprising. I guess they think he took things a step further to show off our finest work. They didn’t stop to think that if he uploaded it to the Internet, he wouldn’t bother editing it beforehand. I thought I did a good job. Removing all our faces. The police say it wasn’t good enough. It was worth it. To think, if I hadn’t posted the video, I’d never have seen you again.”

“That’s it.” Sharp movement as Clint stands up. “Come on Matt, we’re leaving. This is a waste of time.”

Old Spice’s heart skips. Surprise. The smile disappears from his voice. “Sit back down. I’ll tell you how to find Rowe.”

Flesh against metal as Clint sits back down. Sound of fabric as he crosses his arms. “Come on then. We haven’t got all day.”

Annoyance in Old Spice’s voice. He doesn’t like it when he’s not in control. Matt remembers that. “There’s only one person in my life I trust. My girlfriend. The bond between you and someone you fuck can be so important, can’t it? So meaningful.”

Matt turns Ducky over and over in his hand, trying only to concentrate on the repetitive movement. His body is hunched. Instinctively trying to make itself look smaller. He’s not sure he could stop it if he tried. Quivers travel up and down his body.

“You’ve got ten seconds to get to the point,” Clint says. “Ten, nine.”

“I’m getting there.” A tinge of anger. Old Spice rarely sounded angry. Not like the others. But when he did get angry that meant something very bad was going to happen. There’s no memory of what the bad things were, just an instinctive fear. “The bond between you and someone you fuck is important, but the bond between you and a product of that fucking is even more important. You want to find Rowe, go talk to his son. I guarantee you the kid knows where his dad is.”

“That’s it?” Disgust in Clint’s voice. “That’s what you dragged all of us out here to say? You’re supposed to tell us where he is.”

“That wasn’t the deal.” Smugness sounds almost as terrifying in Old Spice’s voice as the anger. “I promised I’d tell Murdock how to find Rowe. I never said I’d tell him where he is.”

“This meeting is over.” Scraping of metal chair as Clint gets up. Plastic against flesh as he picks up the recorder. “Let’s go Matty.”

Clicking of metal as Old Spice stands up as tall as the chains attached to the cuffs allow. Ping ping ping as they start to break. Details run through Matt’s mind quickly. Sound of dense muscle. Tall. Wide. Calluses on Old Spice’s hands like he lifts weights. Large hands on his hips, squeezing hard enough to bruise. The way he moved Matt around as easily as if he were a ragdoll. Can he break the cuffs? Old Spice’s voice booms around him. Static electricity of anger. “The meeting is over when I say it’s over!”

Pain in his chest. His breath comes in quick shallow gasps. Loud sound of metal. The whole table shakes as Old Spice hits it. Matt’s body flinches backward, then freezes. Sharp pressure in his lower abdomen. Then warmth on his thighs and legs.

What?

“Hey bro.” Suddenly Clint is close. “You’re shaking. Gonna get you some water, OK?”

Clicking of metal tells him Old Spice didn’t break the cuffs. Nothing else makes sense. It’s like he’s floating somewhere apart from his body. Panic is thick enough to taste, but it’s coming from his body, not him. And there’s warmth all down his legs. Smell of ammonia.

Creak of metal as the door behind him is opened. Plastic against flesh as Clint catches something that sloshes with liquid. Thrown by? Someone? Natasha? Snap of the bottle opening, then cold flooding over his stomach and legs. Thump of plastic as it bounces on his legs.

“Shit. Sorry Matt. My bad. And now you’re soaked as well as shaking. Let’s just find a bathroom you can change in. Hey Nat, can you get Foggy and Buck to help?”

“What happened?” Natasha asks louder than should be necessary. Lots of people suddenly in the room. Foggy, Bucky, Natasha, two guards. Old Spice’s lawyer is standing up too.

Clint’s hands stay on Matt’s shoulders. “You know me. Clumsy. Tried to give Matt some water and it ended up all over him. Help me get him up.”

Old Spice is shouting. “Next time we meet I’ll make you feel so good. You’ll enjoy it. Just like you did last time!” More words. They don’t make sense.

His clothes stick to him with a horrible wet burning sensation. There’s some in his right shoe. The wet material clings, sticking and unsticking as his legs move. It makes his stomach roll. He doesn’t want to be here, and he must achieve his wish to go somewhere else, because the next thing he’s aware of is scrambling away from hands pulling at his clothes.

“Shh Matty.” Foggy’s voice, from a little way in front of him. “It’s me. It’s Foggy. Me and Clint are here. We’re in the bathroom. We need to get you changed out of those wet clothes, then we can go home.”

His clothes are wet. He’s in a bathroom. His senses are pretty scrambled, but from what he can make out there’s still the noise of prison around him. Slightly different. In a different part of the prison. Why are his clothes wet?

“Matty.” Caution in Foggy’s voice. “Do you know where you are?”

Matt nods. More or less. But… “I want the tower. I want movies. I want cookies. I want w-weighted blanket. W-want L-lucky.” Don’t want to be here.

“Sure Matty.” Foggy’s voice is soothing. “We can do all those things. As soon as you change into dry clothes. Come on, top off.”

Foggy has to help him take off the hoodie. It’s one of the inflatable ones. The rubber inside saving his undershirt from most of the water damage. Matt gets another hoodie in return. This one is huge. It smells like Bucky and Steve. Not as soft as his and Foggy’s ones, but pretty nice. Loud zip sound of Foggy doing it up.

His pants get bunched up in a wet mess around his ankles. Holding onto Foggy, he follows his instructions and finally manages to step out of them. A new pair of sweatpants to replace them. Stepping into them without falling over is difficult. They aren’t as over-sized as the hoodie, but they’re still too big. Foggy has to cinch the cord tight so they don’t fall down. Then thin socks and trainers.

“We’ll get you thicker socks when we get home,” Foggy promises when they walk out of the bathroom. Smell of wood, disinfectant, plastic, tarmac. Several pairs of footsteps stop mid step.

Matt ducks his head self consciously, before he hears Clint clear his throat behind him. “Uh, I kinda spilled a whole bottle of water over myself. Please don’t lock me up for indecency. I’m still wearing boxers, and y’know the top half stuff. Um, I’m going home now.”

It’s several more minutes before they reach outside. The time slows to a drag and speeds up to nothing at the same time. They’re in the car. Then there are questions he thinks. He’s not sure.

Clint’s saying they’re nearly home from the drivers seat when it hits him. The way Old Spice shouted. The warmth flooding down his legs. The smell of ammonia that still lingers under the sweatpants that smell like Clint. He wet himself.

“Hey Matty.” Bucky’s hand squeezes from where it lays over Matt’s shoulders. “You’re fine. We’re almost at the tower. It’s only me, Foggy, Clint, and Natasha here. It’s Monday the 9th May, 7.15pm. You’re safe.”

Tears cut slowly down his face. He wet himself. Clint saw. Natasha must’ve worked it out. She’s Natasha. Foggy helped change him. He would’ve smelt that it wasn’t water. Bucky probably worked it out too. Maybe Old Spice knows too. They all know.

***

He tries to help dry himself off. He does try. But it’s like time is speeding by at a faster rate to him than everyone else.

Dressing is suddenly complicated. Made even more complicated by the fact that Foggy’s chosen his softest clothes, and all Matt wants to do is bury himself in the pile of soft and be done with it. And he can’t stop crying.

“Matty.” Foggy’s voice is slow and careful, like he’s talking to a skittish animal. “Movies, cookies, weighted blanket, and Lucky right? I promised you could have all of them when we got back.”

A sob wrenches from his throat. It hurts. He’s not sure how long he’s been crying. He’s not sure how to stop.

“Come on Matty. Up.” Foggy does most of the work moving from the bathroom to the leather couch in their apartment. That’s good, because Matt’s legs don’t seem to remember how to walk.

***

“I’ve got your intervention sheet right here,” Foggy says. Plastic placed under his fingers. “Please please tell me what’s wrong.”

The tears are quiet again. Quiet, loud, quiet, loud, but they always keep going. His head hurts. His stomach is all twisted. It feels like someones stuffed something jagged and sharp in his chest.

Old Spice’s words echo over and over in his head. Sometimes they croon. Sometimes they shout. There’s the smell of old spice, metal, bleach, jail. A muffled sound from outside their apartment sounds like clang of metal door opening. Click click click of metal chains. Ping ping ping as the chains try to break.

“What do you want me to do bud?” Foggy’s arms stay wrapped around him. He doesn’t seem to mind Matt curling into his chest, as close to the thump thump of Foggy’s heartbeat as he can get. If he could he’d climb inside Foggy and hide in there forever. “I’ll do anything.”

The weighted blanket is draped over the leather couch. Hitched high over Matt’s shoulders, and to Foggy’s mid chest. Lucky curls up as close them as he can, having given up on nudging a while ago. Legally Blonde plays from some buzzing thing on top of a chair dragged over from the dining table.

Xanax makes it difficult to get really anxious, but it makes it easier to drift.

“Let’s talk about Toothless.” Foggy’s heart beats too fast under Matt’s ear. “Come on Matty. Tell me why you like Toothless.”

He imagines an animal the shape of the Toothless in his calming trunk, only bigger. Bigger than him and Foggy. Maybe bigger than Old Spice. Smooth scales under his fingers like a snake skin purse Electra had once. Claws sharp as knives. The ability to spit fire so hot it could turn Old Spice into charred bone. It’s a nice fantasy. A better story to think about than Matt Murdock went to get some information, and wet his pants because someone shouted at him.

He hasn’t wet his pants since the first time Stick broke one of his fingers. The memory makes him curl up tighter against Foggy’s chest. Stick hadn’t been happy. A few times waking up wet after Stick left, but the last of those ended before he turned thirteen.

Why did it happen? What do the others think about him now?

***

“Mr Murdock,” Jarvis says from the speakers in the ceiling of the communal lounge. “You do not have permission to enter the vents.”

Matt woke up in the communal lounge. It happens sometimes since he started sleepwalking more. Everyone spends a lot of time down here, leaving their scent all over the furniture. His subconscious self seems to find being surrounded by everyone’s scent as soothing as his conscious self does.

His stomach twists and coils like a living thing as he pulls himself into the air-vent above the large dining table. If Clint uses it to get into the communal lounge, then he must come from somewhere. So the vents must go places. The only way onto the communal floor is the elevators by the communal lounge. So the vents must go to different floors.

He’s not sure what he’s looking for. A gun. A knife. A way to the punching bags in the gyms so he can hit and scream.

 _Get to work,_ his Dad tells him. He’s trying. The pressure in his chest hurts. He needs to do something to make it stop, but he doesn’t know what.

Foggy’s voice speaks up, saying _“You're more important to me than anything. So the next time you think you might hurt yourself and I'm catching z's what are you going to do?"_ Matt’s voice replying _"Ask Jarvis to get you?"_

Matt pauses, hands and feet in the vent. The metal making popping noises when he rests his limbs in weak spots. But then there’s the more distant memory of excruciating pain in his hand. Coming back to himself with warmth soaking his legs and tears on his face. Stick’s voice sneering _“Pathetic. Why am I wasting my time with you?”_

The knowledge that Matt did something unforgivable. Something lower than low. The mix of gratefulness and terror when Stick gave him another chance. It all spirals inside him, creating a storm of emotion he wants no part in. It’s the middle of the night. More court tomorrow. People are going to be talking about Bubblegum’s parent’s statement again. He just wants to rest.

Change in air flow in front of him. A new metal tunnel right above him. Feeling upwards, his hand finds a rung. Go up or continue down the tunnel he’s on? Not much sound makes it into the vents. The residential floors are well insulated. He thinks he might be able to hear the floors directly above and below if there was anything loud enough to hear. He sniffs the air instead. Slight smell of bleach and antiseptic above him. The medical floor?

His hand grabs the rung, hauling himself upwards. Medical floor will have scalpels if nothing else.

 _“The mind controls the body!”_ Stick shouts at him. But he can’t. All his body wants to do is cry. Just thinking about it makes his eyes start to prickle again. Cutting himself is bad, but it would reduce this clawing feeling in his chest. Foggy’s deep pressure didn’t work. This would work. This always works.

Move fast. Haul himself up, up, up, until the airflow changes again and he finds a tunnel that stinks of bleach, antiseptic, hospital. Jarvis will be able to track him. When he told Matt about security he said he could track presences in the vents. Move fast, and do whatever he needs to do before Foggy and the others find him.

What does he need to do? He’s not sure. He just needs not to be here anymore. He needs a break, a rest, a something.

Something strange ahead. A lump of lots of little things that vibrate against the bottom of the vent whenever he moves. Glass, plastic, softer things. Scent of laundry detergent. Clothes? Food. Sharp scent. Alcohol.

Crouching over the pile, he skims his hand over it. A blanket like the ones in the communal lounge. Plastic things that feel like phones. Wrapped bars of food. Breakfast bars. Some are chocolate. Clint doesn’t learn. A large glass bottle. He wrinkles his nose. Vodka.

Hiding his face behind a knee, he uncaps it. The scent of alcohol seems to slap across his face, making the too tight skin around his eyes, cheeks, and nose sore. Not much time until someone comes. He hesitates, thinking of Foggy.

 _“You’re undisciplined!”_ Stick shouts in his ear. _“Indulgent, emotional! I’m doing you a favour trying to train you. But if you’re not even going to try, I might as well leave.”_

_“The world’s a harsh place Matty. A blind kid like you. If you don’t learn what I’m trying to teach you, you’re gonna get eaten alive.”_

_“You gonna spend yourself crying and rocking yourself to sleep at night?”_

_“Pansy…” “Weak…” “Pathetic…” “You’re too soft…” “I expected too much of you.”_

Taking a deep breath, Matt swallows a mouthful of the vodka. It tastes like lighter fluid. Making a face he shakes himself like a dog, trying to get rid of that taste. Another swallow, then another. The burn helps. It’s a shock to the system.

Three swallows and the clawing in his chest dulls enough for him to realise that squeezing and throwing ice could’ve had the same effect. It must say something about him that his instincts always leap to ways to harm himself when he’s like this. Too late now. The alcohol is right here, and if he has enough of it maybe he can go away for a while.

Voices on the medical floor below him. Loud metal sliding against metal as an air vent opens a metre away from Matt. Strange metal against metal as Bucky hauls himself into the vent. His voice is cautious. “Hey pal. See you found one of Clint’s nests.”

Matt could run. He’s a lot thinner than Bucky. He should be able to move through the vents faster, but it’s hard to navigate with so little noise around him. He’d just get lost or trapped in a dead end. He takes another swig of vodka instead.

Sound of Bucky crawling closer to the nest.

Matt hugs the bottle protectively to his chest. He doesn’t know if he’s had enough yet. He doesn’t want Bucky to take it away.

“We’ll figure out what to do about the alcohol later Matt.” Bucky’s movements are slow. “I just want to get you down from the vents right now.”

It’s not a promise not to take the bottle away, but it’s the best Matt’s going to get. He carefully guides himself over Clint’s nest toward Bucky. His limbs are strangely uncoordinated. Maybe he did take enough alcohol.

“Steve’s below,” Bucky says in that strange cautious voice Foggy used before, like Matt’s a frightened animal they’re trying not to scare off. “I think he might need to help you down. That OK?”

 _“No such thing as a free lunch. Anyone in this world who wants to help you, wants something from you. Guys like you and me need to_ _push people away to survive.”_

“I can do it.” The words come out as a hoarse whisper.

“OK. Steve, he’s going to jump down himself.” Movement. Bucky shifts to the other side of the change in airflow that must mean vent. “Ground’s about ten feet down. Want me to hold the bottle?”

Matt shakes his head, holding it to his chest with one hand. The other finds the opening of the vent. Things are getting woozy. He always was a lightweight, but he knows how far away the ground is. He should be able to make it.

A drop. Air whooshing around him. He bends his legs in time to land neatly on the floor. He’s so focused on nailing the landing that he doesn’t notice the bottle jostling from his grasp until there’s a smash of it hitting the smooth floor. Sharp pain in his leg.

Large arms around him, hauling him up. Matt lands two hits before he recognises Steve’s heartbeat.

“Sorry Matt.” Cool tile under his thick socks as Steve places him down. “I was trying to protect you from the glass.”

Scrape sound as Tony places a chair beside them. “Chair two paces to your left Murdock. And for the love of barely functioning hearts dial down the kicked puppy looks, both of you.”

Loud crack of Thor walking on the glass. “Allow me to be of assistance my friend. I have adequate footwear.”

“Thanks.” Flesh against flesh as Bucky lands. On Thor’s back? Crunch of glass as they move towards Matt.

“Matt.” Bruce sounds worried. “How much alcohol did you drink?”

Matt finds the chair. Sits down heavily.

Shuffling of clothes as Bruce crouches down. “Matt, it’s very important for us to know how much you drank. Mixing xanax and alcohol can be very dangerous.”

Light thump as Bucky jumps to the ground not far from Matt. “It was vodka. The really strong kind Clint and Nat play drinking games with. There was about a third left in the bottle. I’ll text both of them and ask how full it was when they last drank some.”

“Thanks.” Bruce’s voice is strained. Tired. He always is post hulk out. From the dust, jet engine smell everyone has they must’ve just got back from their mission. An intensity to his voice as well. “Matt I need you to answer some questions for me. Are you feeling tired?”

Matt nods, then holds his fingers a short distance away from each other. Only a little.

“Dizzy?”

Another nod. Smaller movements. That symptom is hitting hard right now. He hates the spins.

“How dangerous are we talking here Banner?” Tony asks from somewhere to Matt’s left.

“They’re both sedatives. They have an additive effect. Meaning both of them increase the effect of the other. Confusion. Weakness. Difficulty breathing. Slowed heart-rate. Coma. Death. We just have to hope his last dose of xanax was far enough out of his system. I’m going to get the portable monitors. Jarvis is going to need to track his vitals for the next several hours to be safe.” Quick shuffling movement as Bruce gets up to do that.

Everyone is close except Thor. All their heartbeats are too fast.

“His leg is bleeding.” Thor’s short tense words sound very different to his usual friendly voice.

“Don’t kick me pup.” Tony’s careful fingers pull up the sweatpants Foggy helped him change into. “Gross.”

“I’ll get the med kit.” Bucky’s uneven footsteps move away.

Slight groan from Steve as he crouches down next to Tony. “Matt, are you hurt anywhere else?”

Matt shakes his head minutely. The woozy spinny feeling isn’t so bad if he doesn’t move.

“OK Matt,” Steve says, his voice sliding from worry to the one he uses when giving orders. “We’re going to clean you up. Then Bruce is going to put a few monitors on you to keep an eye on your vitals. I’d also like someone to stay with you tonight, to make sure you stay safe.”

Stay safe. As in don’t try to hurt himself again.

Bucky’s footsteps come back from a nearby room that echoes strangely of glass. Shifting of fabric as he crouches. Then click of plastic. Opening the first aid kit.

“How did you even know the vodka was up there?” Tony asks. “Do you have a alcohol seeking super-sense we should know about?”

Aching in Matt’s chest. Why are they being so nice?

Bucky’s voice is careful. Same as the stinging wipe that cleans out the cut on his leg. “Were you looking for the alcohol?”

Whirring sounds. Trundle of small wheels. Scrape of glass as little robots arrive to clean up the mess Matt made.

“Matt?” Steve’s voice turns as soft as it was the very first time he spoke to Matt. The day Matt broke the plates. “Were you looking for something to hurt yourself with?”

“Don’t know,” Matt whispers, and what he means is yes. But not just hurt. If he only wanted hurt, he could try banging his head. They’ve covered the edges of the marble counter in rubber. Same with the table. But there are always ways to hurt. He wanted something more controlled. Something that would hurt more than biting. He’s not sure what would’ve happened if he found a knife before alcohol. “I just wanted - everything’s really loud in my head - I just wanted a rest.”

Sticky substance on his leg as Bucky fixes a large plaster over the cut. “You can rest anytime you want pal. If things are too much you need to tell us. You need some time away from exposure therapy, or visitors, or even us, that’s fine.”

Matt shakes his head. Bad idea. The corridor spins upside down and inside out. By the time it settles, his hands grip the sides of the chair to stop himself being spun away. “Can’t rest. My Dad says I can’t.”

Everyone’s heartbeats are close enough to hear them jump. Tony’s the first to recover. “Well I’m your benefactor. That trumps dad. And I say all puppies need their rest. If you can’t drink alcohol, you might as well enjoy cartoons.”

None of this makes sense. Matt frowns. “Why aren’t you hitting or yelling?”

Bucky snorts. Not a happy sound. “Because we’re not assholes. Well, ‘cept Tony. And he’s not enough of one to hit you.”

Matt rubs his face, trying to work this out. Everything goes sideways. He comes to with Tony’s hands on his shoulders. “I-I made a choice. It was for the wrong reasons.”

“You fucked up supremely drinking that alcohol.” A tense note of - worry? In Tony’s voice. “I’ll give you that.”

“Everyone makes bad choices from time to time,” Steve says, patiently. “If you learn from it, and try not to do it again, then it doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“We’re worried,” Bucky’s voice says from close by. “But no one’s mad. I promise, no one’s angry at you.”

“You should be angry at me,” the amount of vehemence in the words shocks him. “You should hurt me. You should leave me.”

“Nah,” Tony says, his flippant tone a contrast to the rapid beats of his heart. “I have a go at you for unwise coping mechanisms, I’m going to hear the words ‘pot meet kettle’ for the rest of my life.”

“Matt?” Strange note to Steve’s voice he can’t interpret. “Why do you think we should hurt you?”

“Then I’ll learn.” That’s obvious, isn’t it? Pain is a good motivator. Stick used it a lot.

“Did your dad…” Bucky sounds hesitant. “Did your dad ever hurt you?”

“Only a couple times.” Sitting up is tiring. He rests his head on his legs instead. “When I deserved it.”

“Hey.” Bucky’s hand on his shoulder. “Don’t go to sleep yet pal. Bruce is coming back. He needs to put on the monitors.”

“Bucky?” Bucky knows, right? Maybe. He might know what Matt did. “I did something really bad.”

Bucky’s hand moves. Always gentle. Resting on the nape of his neck. “I doubt that.”

“Stick says it is.” Stick was disgusted at him a lot, but that time was the worst. “Says I’m pathetic. Think he’s gonna leave.”

“Good riddance,” someone’s voice says. Tony’s? “Sounds like an emotionally abusive asshole.”

“Strange metal?” No. Wrong words. Everything is hazy, but Stick’s voice is still too loud. “Bucky. Vodka didn’t work. Think I need a knife.”

Sharp breath. Bucky’s heartbeat disappears from the back of his neck. Matt jerks his head up to track him, and everything spins and spins forever.

It’s Steve’s heartbeat rubbing over his back that slows the roller-coaster his brain is on. Somehow his head is leaning against his legs again. “Matt? What do you mean the vodka didn’t work?”

Steve should know. Steve seems to know almost as much as Natasha sometimes. “Didn’t work.”

“How do you know it didn’t work?”

Matt’s face crumples. So much for the alcohol stopping the crying. “Stick won’t stop yelling at me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Main triggers =
> 
> Usual frightening situations, psychological abuse from rapists, people with poor views on rape victims, extreme emotion, dissociation, thoughts of self harm, and borderline suicidal thoughts. 
> 
> A fear wetting incident and emotional fallout afterward. Mention of past childhood bedwetting and an incident of wetting due to extreme pain as a child. Risky / self harm behavior involving drinking alcohol while on sedatives. 
> 
> If you think anything should be added to this summary of triggers for this chapter, let me know in a comment.


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for trigger notes (includes possible spoilers)

Matt wakes up with his face smushed into Bucky’s neck, his head pounding, and promptly decides that consciousness is overrated. “Nggg.”

“I’ll bet,” Bucky says, sounding like he’s been awake for a while. “How are you feeling?”

Matt shifts from where he’d somehow curled up into a ball on Bucky’s chest, crawling onto silk sheets. Only… They’re not his silk sheets. “Steve’s room?”

“Yup.” Paper against paper as Bucky closes a book. How long was he waiting for Matt to wake up? “You were in my room, but you were still pretty drunk after the nightmare. Hard to reason with. Having both of us close seemed to settle you.”

Drunk? He remembers the vodka, but not much of what happened afterwards. “I smell blood.”

“Yeah. You cut your leg when the vodka bottle smashed. A little cut. No stitches needed.” Shuffling as Bucky sits up. Creak of limbs as he stretches. “Steve and Sam went for a run. We figured you could do with sleeping in.”

They’re not wrong. Matt touches his face, stopping to prod at his forehead. Ouch. The pounding ups several degrees. “Did I hit my head?”

“Nightmare. Ran into a wall. Steve got to you first. You told him there was a bear chasing you.” Bucky’s heart beats faster. Not a good memory. “Pal, we need to talk.”

Matt follows the sound of Lucky’s breathing to find the dog huddled up by the pillows. “I’m - I’m sorry for drinking the vodka. It was pathetic.”

“First.” Some kind of gesture from Bucky. “Fiona says you need to quit with the negative labels. Second, that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“Bucky, please…” He can guess what this is about. Old Spice, or what Matt did while he was with Old Spice. Heat rises to his face. Please let him be wrong.

“What happened yesterday when we visited Short.” Bucky clears his throat. “There’s nothing bad about it. It’s your body’s natural reaction to fear.”

Matt pushes himself off the bed so quickly, his back hits the wall. Bucky does know. His guts twist with shame. “Don’t wanna talk about this.”

“Look Matt.” The tense, almost fearful note in Bucky’s voice softens. “I’ve looked into this. It happens to other people too. You know how sometimes after a panic attack you feel like you need to go to the bathroom?”

A small nod. If Matt blushes any more fiercely, his whole head is going to catch on fire. He presses against the wall, wishing he could disappear inside it.

“An extreme sympathetic nervous response yanks energy from all kinds of things including the muscles that control your bladder. You know how kids can wet themselves when they get scared? Well, the same can happen to adults. You have to be pretty damn terrified for it to happen, but it can happen. Happens to a fair number of people with anxiety disorders like PTSD, just, no one really talks about it.”

This happens to other people? Matt blinks rapidly. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

Hair moving as Bucky runs a hand through it. His heart beats almost as fast as Matt’s. “I get that, but Matt listen-”

“No!” Matt hits the wall behind him, sending a tremor all the way up his arm. Pain that echoes in his head. “You said if there’s something I don’t want to talk about-”

“It happened to me too!” Tense in Bucky’s rough smooth voice. Tense in his muscles. “OK Matt. It happened to me too. A few months into my recovery. A couple times, I wet the bed during a nightmare. I couldn’t sleep without Steve at the time, so yeah, it was a shock for both of us. I was embarrassed. Last night when you were drunk you spewed a lot of self hate about it. This happened before, right? When you were a kid. And this Stick person called you a lot of names over it. Well, that’s bullshit. What’s the point in hating yourself over something that’s a basic survival mechanism you have no control over?”

Something heavy and warm learning against his legs. Lucky’s heartbeat. It helps him calm. Brings some focus back to his mind. “Because - because I’m supposed to be different.”

“This Stick person tell you that too?”

Matt swallows hard. How much did he say last night to put that much hatred in Bucky’s voice? “He taught me how to focus. If you - if you use your mind and focus really hard you can do a lot of things other people can’t. L-like work harder, sleep and eat less, control parts of your body and mind people think you can’t control.”

Odd noise from Bucky’s throat. Doesn’t sound happy. “What kinds of things did he say you could control?”

“Emotions. All of them. Really deep down.” The memory makes his stomach twist. He’s tried that, but he’s never been very good at it. “But other things too. Your mind controls your body. You can make your body do anything if you work hard enough.”

Bucky sighs. Creak of Steve’s mattress as he sits down. “So you think this is your fault. You think because you got scared…Christ, have you been blaming yourself for every emotion right from the start of this?”

Matt opens his mouth, closes it again.

Muffled breathing. Bucky covering his face with his hands. “OK. I’m not as good at explaining these things as Steve, but here we go. You can’t control your body or your mind. Not to that degree. That’s the kind of bigoted thinking that makes assholes tell people with mental health issues to ‘get over it already.’ Sure, there are tactics to improve your mental health, but they take a long time, a lot of work, and self care is a giant part of all of it. You can’t brute force your way through healing. That’s a short term solution at best. And a lot of times it messes you up more in the long term. Shove aside a lot of issues, and sooner or later something will make you stall, and all those issues will come crashing down at once. A lot like what seems to be happening to you.”

“I-I don’t understand.” It makes a scary amount of sense. Fiona keeps saying his past trauma could have an impact on what he’s going through now. But Stick actively encouraged him to forget about his father’s death and move on. Anytime Matt mentioned that, or losing his sight, or anything he was worried or upset about, Stick told him to quit whining. Why would he tell him that if it made his mental state worse, then in the same breath tell him to work harder to control his emotions? He scrambles for something to show that Stick didn’t feed him a pack of lies. “It worked. In college I could study for days straight without any sleep and barely any food.”

“If I may interject,” Jarvis’s voice says from the ceiling. “Many college students have attempted similar feats of sleeplessness. Studies show that productivity drops markedly the less sleep a person gets, and in fact it’s often the case that a nights sleep results in more work done and higher exam scores than those who spend that night studying.”

“Your body has limits,” Bucky says. “Same as your mind. Self care is important. It’ll help both your mind and body function better. I’m not saying stuff like meditation can’t improve things. It can. But it’s not going to give you super control over every aspect of your mind and body. And a big part of why meditation works is because it forces your body to rest. Isn’t that one of your cognitive distortions? Expecting perfection of yourself?”

Matt nods slowly, feeling a little shell shocked. All or nothing thinking. He’s addressed several of those thoughts, but in the back of his mind something always whispered that if he was really trying hard he’d make himself reach perfect anyway. If he could control his deep down feelings like Stick told him he could learn to, then he should’ve been able to beat PTSD away in a few meditation sessions and some hard effort.

What if Stick was wrong?

“Look. Right now all I want you to take in is that yesterday wasn’t your fault. How your body reacted wasn’t your fault. And if it ever happens again, that won’t be your fault either. Got it?”

None of it makes sense, but Matt nods anyway.

***

With every word the boy says Matt’s head pounds louder.

He’s crouched on the floor outside the door that connects to the room where Natasha is interviewing Baseball Bat’s son. He should be sitting in the chair, but right now it’s too tall. It feels like the world is teetering around him. Listening to a heartbeat from the other room becomes more impossible with every second that passes.

“Should’ve brought your loopy pills,” Foggy grumbles beside him, having abandoned his own chair for the floor as well. “Between the alcohol and the head injury I should’ve guessed we were heading into migraine territory. It’s a miracle we lasted this long.”

They played a tape in court. A digital recording filled with screams for help to illustrate the volume Matt heard people in trouble a distance away, and why he couldn’t ignore it. That was when the pounding in his head started growing. Now it feels like his brain is shoving against his skull.

“My dad didn’t do anything wrong,” the boy says, the same determination in his voice he entered the room with, no matter how Natasha tries to cajole him into telling them where his father is. He knows where Baseball Bat is. That much Matt’s been able to pick up from his heartbeat, but their attempts to draw him into any kind of conversation that could help fails. “He’s a great dad. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

Matt’s stomach twists, and he’s not sure if it’s nausea from the migraine or the boy’s words.

***

The boxer knocks down every figure in the sand tray.

It’s nearly three hours since he took his loopy pill. For most of that he slept. Then up in time to pick at supper, and therapy a little later than usual. He’s still hazy. So they’re doing a sand tray since communicating is difficult right now.

Make a sand tray, Fiona had said. Using any of the figures he wants. No more direction than that. Usually that would be a problem, but today it’s like he never woke up after the migraine pill. Like he’s still dreaming. He can’t think. Right now that helps.

The sand tray is on the floor this time. It makes it easier to move around it while he’s unsteady and uncoordinated. His sense of balance is off, and even standing too long makes him list to one side. Sounds are muffled, with occasional sharpness. His body feels like it’s stretched too tight. Like all the sensations that overwhelmed him during his migraine are pressing at the protective blanket the pill threw over him, trying to burst through.

The plastic boxer knocks down all the many figures he’d placed in the tray. Every single one. His fury is endless. The devil is clawing its way out of his chest. When the devil gets out no one stands a chance. Some of the little plastic figures must run and scream. They would if Foggy or Clint were playing. But Matt’s not sure how to do that. He’s not sure he wants them to scream, so they stand, silent, fear crossing their faces in his mind as his Dad beats them to the ground.

One of the figures is a bear. His Dad hits, stomps, crushes the bear into the bottom of the sand tray. Then he kicks sand over the body. Burying him while Matt smooths the sand - a lot softer and nicer than the sand in the tray last time - until not even his super-senses can tell the bear is under there. Gone. Removed from all existence.

Then his Dad does the same to all the other figures.

By the time all the figures are gone, and his Dad is standing over Old Spice to make sure he learns his lesson, he feels better. Drained, but better.

“The boxer seems pretty angry,” Fiona says after she asks a few vague questions about the tray he can’t answer. “Do you think he’s angry.”

Matt shrugs, wiping the sand off his hands. “Sometimes.”

“Can you tell me about him?”

Matt sits cross legged on the carpet before shuffling back a few paces. He’d been more violent than he thought. There’s bits of sand all around the tray. “He’s really nice. He was a good guy.”

Fiona doesn’t move from the side of the sand tray. Sitting on the floor like him. “Can you tell me what he was doing?”

Interest in her voice. No judgement. “He was-” it’s hard to use his brain when it feels like his whole body just made it out of a taffy machine. Don’t think. Just answer. “He got angry.”

Movement. Fiona nods in simple acknowledgement. “Who did he get angry at?”

“Old Spice.” He’d pictured the man as best as possible, combining it with the grunts of pain when Jack Murdock took down Creel. He swallows. His Dad wouldn’t like that. He doesn’t like it when Matt gets angry. He likes it even less when Matt gets angry at a specific person or wishes harm on them. “And the people outside court today. The ones who - who say it’s my fault Bubblegum can’t play basketball.”

“Can you tell me more about-”

“Can I change it?” Matt blurts out. His heart beats too fast. That makes more of the sharp sounds sever through the blanket covering the sensations. “It’s not - I did it wrong.”

“You can change it if you want,” Fiona says evenly. “But there’s no way to do a sand tray wrong. Remember. There’s no wrong answers with this.”

There is. “He wouldn’t like it. He doesn’t like it when I’m angry or violent, and I used him to do that, and…”

“Matt, Take a deep breath. In and out.” Fiona sounds so calm. There’s that casual tone in her voice. It makes everything seem fine and normal, even when he’s freaking out.

Lucky nudges him. He buries his fingers in the dog’s fur, concentrating on his breathing.

“In all the time we’ve talked,” Fiona says carefully. “You haven’t expressed any anger towards the people who hurt you. Yet you hold a lot of anger towards yourself. It’s normal to be angry when someone hurts you. It’s healthy to express that anger. It’s not healthy to bottle it up.”

“He wouldn’t do that.” Matt gestures the hand not stroking Lucky towards the tray. “He wouldn’t hurt people like that. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just - I mean, he’d get angry, but that was only when - it took a lot.”

“Can you tell me about it?” Fiona asks, curiosity in her voice. “A time when he got angry.”

“There was-” it’s hard to think of a specific occasion. Harder to think of a trigger. “People didn’t like him. Some were scared, and others… They’d call him names, sometimes to his face. Shove past him on the stairs. Put things in the mail. That kind of thing. He’d take it. All of it. Never talk about it or get angry. Then all at once he’d snap. Not often. Maybe once a year or two. It’s like how he was in the ring. He’d take punch after punch and stay on his feet. Then one time it would be a punch too many, and he’d let the devil out. And it was like that. One time we were walking to our apartment and he heard a father call his daughter a slut. She was about my age. And after my Dad was done, the father didn’t get out of hospital for three months. It was a miracle he didn’t go to jail. That and managing to get a good court appointed attorney. Another time some guy kicked an old woman’s walking stick. There were plenty of opportunities he didn’t take. He’d brush himself off, or do what he could for someone getting hurt without using his fists to help. But sometimes, it’s like it was too much.”

“That sounds like it could be a scary thing for a kid to watch.”

Has she been talking to Clint? Or one of the others who saw how he reacted to Merida being scared of her mother? “He was my Dad. He’d never hurt me like that.”

“OK,” Fiona says. No judgement. No argument. “How did you feel watching him beat up that father?”

That was about two years before he lost his eyesight. “I don’t know. I saw him beat up people before, mostly in the ring.” But in the ring there are rules. People to force him to back off if need be. “It was - I didn’t expect it. I didn’t know if he would stop.” He remembers screaming for his Dad to stop. The girl screaming too. The father limp, bleeding, helpless. His Dad still punching.

“It sounds like your dad had problems managing his anger,” Fiona says evenly. “I’m not blaming him,” she adds quickly. Maybe sensing his desire to protest. “And I’m not suggesting that he directed his anger toward you. I’m saying that he may have had a problem that he didn’t get help with. Much like you have problems with your anger and anxiety at times.”

It’s strange to think of his Dad having any kind of issues. But…”Sometimes he’d get sad. Really sad.”

Movement as Fiona nods. “Depression is said to run in families.”

“But he was still a good Dad,” Matt adds quickly. Talking about this feels like he’s betraying him. “He always did his best for me. Wanted me to have a better life than he did.”

“There are thousands of good parents who happen to have mental illnesses,” Fiona says. “I’m not here to judge if he was a good parent or not. Not if you don’t want me to. I’m here to help you learn coping mechanisms. To help you process stuff in your head. And I’m getting the impression that some of the things we need to process go back further than you think.”

***

“You like boxing,” Steve reminds in the boxing ring that evening when he’s too wound up to eat. He’d had a lot more sleep than usual today, and a lot less exercise. That’s part of why they think he’s suddenly on edge. “That’s part of who you are.”

They remind him of this sometimes. Things he likes. Or values he shows a lot. He might not be the same as the person he was, but he’s someone. That someone might change again as he goes through the recovery process. His likes and dislikes might change. His values might change. But he’ll always be someone, even when he needs to learn who that someone is.

Matt dodges a half hearted blow. Frowns. Is Steve even trying? Feinting to the side on legs that still tingle from his second nap of the day, he slips a punch under Steve’s guard.

The man grunts surprise. “You’re pretty fast for someone who was high as a kite five hours ago.”

Not for the first time Matt laments at his weird reaction to medications that his migraine pills were among those with the least extreme side affects. His body is all tingly and odd feeling, and his senses are a little murky. “You don’t have to hold back so much. I’m not going to break.”

Creaking as Bucky leans on the ropes outside the ring. “Steve gets to go as easy on you as he likes Matt. You’re recovering. You’re groggy. And if you get hurt, Steve’s the one who’ll feel bad for hurting you.”

The words make the rage climb as high as when he made the boxer beat up all those figures. Feinting to one side, he lands a solid blow to Steve’s jaw. Another punch, then another. High, low. jab, uppercut. He keeps it varied to confuse Steve’s defences. Steve blocks most of them, but some get through. Matt tries to make those count, shoving down his distaste at hitting someone he cares about. Steve can handle it.

Whoosh of air as Steve finally sends a punch his way. It stops. All Steve’s muscles tensing even more than they did when defending himself from Matt’s rapid fire punches. “You’re not blocking.”

Matt’s expression twists into a snarl. He shoves his boxing gloves into Steve’s chest. Anger bubbles up. “You’re not punching.”

Movement. Steve draws back an arm to punch. Spike in heart-rate. Then whoosh of air as the fist shoots towards Matt.

Matt readies himself for impact, but there’s nothing. Nothing.

Steve sighs. Flesh against flesh as he drops his arm to his side. “You’re not even raising your hands. What are you trying to do Matt?”

This isn’t going right. Matt hunches his shoulders. None of this is going right. By the side of the ring Bucky and Foggy’s hearts race.

“Matt?” Hesitant softness to Steve’s voice. “Are you trying to get me to punish you for something?”

Sparring was a bad idea. Growling in frustration, Matt storms across the ring. Slips through the ropes on the opposite side to Bucky and Foggy, then heads for the bags.

“I’ll take this one,” he hears Bucky say behind him. Uneven footsteps jogging after him.

Matt starts on the bag. The dense material makes his right arm ache. The boxing gloves add an odd sensation. He usually only wraps his hands when he goes up against the punching bags.

“Pal?” Same hesitant softness to Bucky’s voice as Steve had. “Can you tell me why you’re so angry? Maybe I can help?”

He can’t help. Matt loses himself against the bag. Lets his fists hit hard and fast. Lets the white hot anger wash over him. Lets the clawing feeling in his chest take over.

Bucky’s voice. Steve’s voice. It’s Foggy’s voice that breaks through. “Matt! Stop!”

Matt freezes in place. Body drenched in sweat. Arm aching. Steve’s heartbeat on his shoulder, like he’d been about to pull him away.

Then Foggy’s arms are on him. Tugging him away from the heavy bag. One hand flexes his right arm as if checking he can still move it. The other wipes his sweaty hair away from his forehead. Looking at his face? “Hey. Hey Matty. You with me?”

Matt’s not sure, but he nods anyway. Adrenaline drops away, leaving him shaky.

“Whoa. Hey, I vote we sit down. You look like you’re going to fall on your face.” Foggy’s hands wrap around him, lowering him to the mat. “Sitting down is an awesome idea.”

They all end up sitting on the mat. Foggy in front of Matt. Bucky behind, giving him something to lean on. Steve beside Foggy, further away from Matt.

“Want to clue us in on why you just did your level best to put your arm back in a cast?” Foggy’s hands are firm on his shoulders. Thumbs rubbing soothingly. “You know you’re not supposed to go all out on the heavy bags with your right arm until Devan says so. That’s why we got you the bopper.”

The bopper is an inflatable punching bag. It’s filled with air so is soft on his hands. Sam filled the base with rice instead of water, and the extra weight makes it swing back up fast after it’s hit. He can punch that all he wants with his right arm.

Lucky sniffs and snuffles him now he’s sitting down. On impulse Matt wraps his arms around the dog, burying the side of his face into the animal’s fur. It’s nice to have breathing, heart beating, lavender, doggy smell, safe, right there.

“Matt?” Steve sounds concerned. “Can you tell us what number you’re on?”

Matt shrugs, not letting go of Lucky. He doesn’t know. The dog lets out a heavy sigh, resting his chin on Matt’s shoulder.

Shuffling of cloth. “Here.” Bucky places something plastic by his hand. “I grabbed your sheet. Want to take your gloves off, then you can tell us what you’re feeling?”

“Was angry,” Matt mumbles, not bothering with the sheet. “Now just tired.”

“Can you tell us why you were angry?” Steve asks. “It seemed to come on pretty suddenly. Did I do anything to trigger it?”

He’s been on edge since Old Spice, but this bout of anger did seem to come out of nowhere. “You didn’t hit me. You held back.” That was what started this.

“You weren’t defending yourself.” Patience in Steve’s voice. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

It’s confusing. Stick didn’t hold back, not even when he had broken bones. Electra didn’t either. “I don’t understand.”

“OK buddy.” Foggy rubs circles in his back. “We’ll work on it.”

***

Steve is really sad, Natasha explains. Because Matt thought he’d hurt him, and Steve would never ever hurt Matt.

Natasha’s heart does something a little funny while she’s explaining. So maybe it is a lie, but Steve does do that heavy sigh thing he does when he’s sad. So maybe he is a little sad.

It’s too late to make blueberry muffins. So he grabs the tin with the last of the cherry cookies, adds a slice of treacle tart from the fridge, and places it on Steve’s lap. Then he settles down next to him on the large couch and eats his way through a bowl of oatmeal. For some reason everyone seems happier when they see him eat.

Steve gets movie choice, so they watch Ponyo. It’s directed by the same person as Kiki’s delivery service, and that one is one of Matt’s favourite movies. It’s slower than other movies which gives more time for the audio-description and Steve to describe what’s going on. Steve’s description of the jellyfish at the start of the movie, and the murky sea floor makes him feel like all those things are under his fingertips right now. Steve’s good at descriptions.

Tony’s fast footsteps pass by the couch on the way to an armchair. “Here pup.” Plastic cup smelling like chocolate, banana, and chemicals. Another weight gain shake since supper was the only meal he managed to finish today. Gross. At least Tony made it this time. He’s the best at making shakes, although nothing can quite cover up the gritty texture and taste of additives.

Matt takes the shake grudgingly, slightly mollified when his fingers find a crazy straw. He likes placing his fingers on different parts of the loops and guessing from the change in temperature where the shake is.

“Drink all that Matt,” Sam says from the smaller couch next to Thor’s heartbeat. “And you get a treat. I picked up a couple things while I was out that I think you might like.”

It makes about as much sense as the idea of someone going easy on him during a sparring session because he didn’t put his guard up. Matt leans forward so Sam will be able to see him around Steve’s bulk. Frowns. “Why?”

“Friends don’t need a reason to give each other gifts Matt,” Foggy says from the other side of the large couch. A practised air to the words. He’s said this many times. “I get you gifts all the time. So does Mom. Did you forget?”

His Dad gave him gifts. Books mostly. Anna gives him food all the time. Foggy is always getting him things. Some expensive chocolate. A silk shirt. Fluffy socks. His old hoodies because he knows Matt likes them when they’re baggy and worn. Electra gave him things, but they were stolen and it hurt when his moral conscience told him to give them away. Stick gave him things, but they were always part of a test, never good.

Some kids at school used to give him things that hurt. Tacks, glass, heated metal. A boy at the orphanage gave him things so he could tell the nuns he’d stolen them and get him in trouble.

Matt groans, resting his head on Steve’s side. Why is everything so confusing? It’s like every day brings up old fears he thought he’d put behind him.

“It’s OK Matt,” Steve says softly. “Drink your shake and you can have the treat. If you don’t like it, that’s fine. And if you’re worried about something, you just need to tell us. We don’t know how to help if you don’t communicate with us.”

“I don’t like…” The feel of Steve’s heartbeat thumping slow and regular against Matt’s head is nice. Soothing, along with the familiar sharp soap scent. “I don’t like surprises.”

Tony makes an exasperated noise. “Well you could’ve told me before I got you so many of them.”

Flesh against flesh. Pepper reaches over from the armchair she’s sharing with Bruce to slap him. “What he means to say is thank you for telling us Matt.”

“It’s a small bag of roasted hazelnuts,” Sam says, nothing in his heart to suggest he minds ruining the surprise. “And another small bag of chocolate covered dates. Foggy says you’re a fan of that kind of stuff, and dried fruit and nuts are healthy high calorie snacks that should help you gain some weight.”

He’s never tried chocolate covered dates, but he loves dates when Anna adds them to things she’s baking. And roasted hazelnuts are nice. He hasn’t had those for over a year. Settling closer to Steve’s side, he sips on the crazy straw. The shake still tastes too gritty.

Sound of the movie starting up again.

Sam’s laughing when it’s time to hand over Matt’s rewards. Maybe at the faces Matt can’t help but make as he tries to wash the shake grit away with water. “You going to eat all your meals tomorrow?”

Matt nods, scowling. Every single one. Claire says he’s got twenty-five pounds to put on before she lets him stop the weight gain shakes. The sooner he gets to stop them the better.

Crinkle of paper bags set in front of Matt. “If you like them I’ll get more. Anything that helps you up your weight is a good thing.”

“Thank you,” Matt whispers. It’s really odd to be given something. Odder than Tony and his inventions, or Bucky and his PECS book, because this isn’t anything useful. It’s just something nice. For a moment he feels eighteen years old again, trying to work out why his roommate bought him expensive chocolates to share, just because Matt mentioned once he liked the smell of the shop.

“No problem man.” A smile in Sam’s voice as his footsteps move back to his seat. “Whatever you don’t like hand off to Steve. He’ll eat anything but bananas. And anything you do like, I want to see you eating every last bit of. You need the calories.”

The roasted hazelnuts are good. Nutty and creamy. No weird extra ingredients. The chocolate covered dates are amazing. Better than chocolate cookies. Before he’s halfway into the movie he’s searching the paper bag, hoping to find one last piece hidden in a corner. No luck. His shoulders slump.

A smile in Steve’s voice. “Sam said he’d get you some more. He only got you a few this time because he didn’t know if you’d like them. Next time he can get a bigger bag.”

Matt’s not sure what to say to that. He could offer to pay for it, but he only had a little savings before all this. Enough to cover a couple months rent on his apartment and the office. It’s already been a couple of months. They have the fund raised to keep them afloat, but that’s to keep Matt’s apartment and the office, legal and other fees, and basics. Chocolate covered dates don’t count as basics, and Foggy’s in charge of the fund, and he seems to be keen on letting Tony cover as many expenses as he wants.

“Enjoying the movie?” Steve asks, giving him an out that Matt gratefully jumps on.

Matt nods his head. “I like Kiki better, but it’s good.”

***

“It made no sense,” Foggy interjects.

“It did make sense.” Matt frowns from where he sits next to Foggy on the couch in their apartment. “Ponyo was a goldfish princess who wanted to be human because she met Sosuke. He’s a five year old boy. They became best friends. Ponyo made mistakes, but Sosuke still loved her.”

“See what I mean.” Foggy makes some kind of wide gesture that has Karen giggling from the buzzing tablet on top of the kitchen chair. “No sense.”

“It’s good Karen,” Matt says, facing the buzzing tablet instead of Foggy. “Steve says it’s very beautiful. I think you might like it.”

“Well, I did love Spirited Away,” Karen says from the buzzing tablet. It’s still a little weird to talk to someone with a computer voice and no heartbeat, no matter how often he uses Skype. “That’s another one of Studio Ghibli’s films.”

Matt blinks. “I haven’t watched that one.”

“Ooooh.” Gleeful note in Karen’s voice. “It’s so good. Beautiful, and mysterious, and a little bit dark. I haven’t seen it for a while, but I think you’ll like it.”

“Jarvis,” Foggy says politely. “Could you add it to Matt’s list?”

“Adding it to Mr Murdock’s list now,” the voice from the ceiling says.

“Thank you Jarvis.” Shuffling from Foggy. He does something to the tablet with Karen on it. Adjusts the screen. “Hey Matt.You heading for bed soon? You need your rest if you’re planning on feeding the kittens before your run tomorrow.”

Matt bounces to his feet. It’s his and Pepper’s turn tomorrow morning. He pauses. “Are you sending me to bed?”

“I am strongly suggesting that you go to bed.” Sound of hair moving against shirt. Foggy tilts his head? “I can make it an order if you want. Like ‘young man! Bedtime now!’ I have a childhood of Mama Nelson to draw on for inspiration. And you have like a decade of Christmas eves.”

On Christmas Eve all the ‘kids’ of the house need to be in bed before midnight. A tradition that stays whether there are any children in the house or not. That’s when the parents put the presents from themselves under the tree, claiming to any younger cousins staying over that those are the ones from Santa.

“I’m not a kid.” The words waver. He knows he acts like it sometimes. This afternoon with the sand tray might be the closest he’s ever got to playing pretend. What scares him the most is how cathartic it felt letting the boxer figure channel all that rage onto the other figures.

“I know bud, but even not-kids need their rest.” A note of something unsure in Foggy’s voice. “I can pull the age card if you want. I have seniority.”

Matt shakes his head, smiling. “You’re only ten months older.”

“By the power vested in me due to my vast ten extra months on this planet, and my ability to tattle on you to Fiona and Mom, I hereby declare this hour ‘past Matt Murdock’s bedtime.’” Movement. Some kind of waving gesture from Foggy. “I’m shooing you towards your bedroom. Go, sleep, recharge. I’ll finish up with Karen, then head to bed myself.”

Somehow Foggy manages to make these things seem like not such a big deal. An extension of Matt’s goofy or stubborn behaviour that usually waits until he’s tipsy or tired to come out. It’s not as bad knowing he slips into odd behaviour when Foggy doesn’t seem to mind. “Night Karen.” He walks to his bedroom, Lucky’s footsteps tiredly padding behind him. “Night Fogs.”

He’s humming slightly, a continuous sound, as he slides under the duvet in silk pyjamas. Jarvis starts up the recorded guided mediation. No Bruce tonight. A recorded session instead. Then when meditating becomes easier, he’ll be able to meditate on his own without any guidance.

“No, the wife doesn’t seem to know anything about where Rowe is,” Karen says from the other room. “We think he just told his son, or they’ve been in contact somehow. We’re working on it.”

“He’s a stubborn kid.” Foggy’s voice. “I can’t believe Nat couldn’t get anything out of him.”

“Love can give you a lot of strength you didn’t know you could have.” Hardness to Karen’s voice. “But Jessica says it also makes you do stupid things. We’re watching the boy, so let’s hope Rowe does something stupid. This time we’re not letting him get away.”

“Well the good news on our end is it’s looking unlikely Short will get his deal. A vague clue isn’t a solid location. I think it’s a desperate move on his part. I mean, first he denies any involvement unlike the first three who confessed when first arrested, even if they later plead not guilty. Then I think he realised how much identifying information we could pull from the video, and the ID from the bartender, so he tried to get a deal. It’s the crap he told the press that threw me. About it being consensual. I mean, who’s going to believe that?”

“Assholes don’t need a reason to be assholes Foggy,” Karen says. “How’s Matt taking all this?”

“It’s hard to say.” A small sound of frustration. “Feelings talks are difficult. He tries, but he gets confused. His speech patterns are all over the place. He’s drifting again, since Natasha, since you and Clint. We think Thor coming messed him up. And there was Short yesterday. I keep thinking I should’ve refused to let him go, but Maurice says I should respect his right to make decisions. We already have to set so many rules and restrictions to keep him safe and healthy, so I understand why it’s important. It’s just…”

“You want to wrap him up and keep him safe forever.” No judgement in Karen’s voice.

“Yeah.” Wet in Foggy’s voice. “I know that’s a little screwed up. I’ve always tried to respect his independence, but Karen, I can’t get those bruises out of my mind. And sometimes he just looks so scared. I don’t want him to ever have a reason to be that scared again.”

“He’ll get better. It’ll take time. It’s only been, what, two months?”

“Eight weeks tonight,” Foggy says. “Karen, Fiona thinks this could take a while. Complex PTSD makes this, well, complex. And while I keep getting beaten over the head with the phrase ‘there’s no average recovery time for trauma,’ it looks like Matt has more than this trauma to work through. Which I knew when I met him. He’s always been an odd duck once you get past the surface charm.”

Small laugh from Karen. “A charming odd duck.”

“A charming, odd, handsome duck,” Foggy agrees. “So, a warning. I got my ass handed to me by Fiona for trying to dig into Matt’s past. So, don’t do that. We’re walking a tightrope right now. Digging up issues he’s not really thinking of, or can’t remember is going to increase his symptoms. He’s already got his hands full processing this latest trauma, not to mention all the traumatic things that’ve happened after. He needs to process all the junk in his head right now without adding too much other stuff. On the other side of things, just to make it interesting, leaving him to wallow in all the things in his head isn’t a good idea either, including the old stuff. So we have to encourage him to share the things he’s worrying about, without digging up everything from his past and burying him in old issues.”

“And I’m betting you want to interrogate him to draw up a list of everyone who’s ever been mean to him, and track them down.”

“You know me so well Karen Page.” Dark bark of laughter from Foggy. “All of this would be a lot easier if he communicated. Which, by the way Matt, if you’re eavesdropping is a very big hint. There are a couple things we think he’s worrying about that we’re tiptoeing around. And Fiona also thinks he might be having emotional flashbacks to whatever happened when he was a kid. Which could help explain why he’s ‘off’ sometimes. It’s a maybe. We’re still not sure.”

“Well, know I’m there for both of you. Just concentrate on finishing the trial Foggy. We should find Rowe soon, wherever he’s hiding, then we can all breathe easier.”

“I’m one hundred percent up for breathing easier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Conversation about fear wetting incident from last chapter. Another character mentions a couple past instances of adult bedwetting. Violence instances talked about (witnessed by character as a child). Past bullying / harassment of an adult talked about. Attempted self harm (by trying to get another character to hit him). Actual self harm through excessive / dangerous exercise. Brief past mentions of bullying. And the usual messed up thought processes, people being assholes, and the frightening place that is Matt's mind.
> 
> As always, let me know in a comment if you think I should add any other trigger warning for this chapter.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoilery trigger warnings for this chapter.

Pepper plays the electric guitar.

It vibrates the whole music room, even though the volume is set low. It’s a little painful so Matt has his headphones hanging around his neck ready, but it’s also nice too. It’s not loud and blaring. The notes jump around in a good tune. Pepper said it’s a song called Peace of Mind.

It’s kind of peaceful listening on the soft couch with the kittens curled up and sleepy in his arms. A little damp from washing them in the sink. They have to do that after every feeding to help them go to the toilet.

The tabby’s eyes opened this morning, but the black and tortie kittens still have their eyes tightly shut. Pepper says the tabby’s eyes are blue. All of their eyes are likely to be blue. That might change as they grow up. They’re still little and helpless. They don’t do much but eat and sleep.

When the last of the kitten’s heartbeats slows into sleep, Matt places them carefully in their carrier. Then he takes a seat in front of the piano. His fingers press down each of the notes in turn. After the first few he pauses to listen to Pepper in case she minds, but she doesn’t stop playing. This must be OK.

Flapping his fingers slightly, he presses a piano key, hums a note, presses another key, tries to hum that note. The simple monotonous task is good. Like meditation. He makes his way all the way from one side of the piano to the other, then back again to do the same to the keys that stick up. Tries to memorise which sound belongs to which key. Goes back several times to keys he’s not sure he’s humming quite right.

He joined the choir after Stick left. The nun who organised it despaired at the music she sometimes heard them play in the dorms. So she took it on herself to play them choir music during meal times. She caught him singing one of the songs note perfect in the church, one of the few places it was quiet now he had to sleep in the dorms.

But it ended badly. It always ends badly.

“I didn’t know you could play the piano,” Pepper says, startling him. He hadn’t even noticed she’d stopped playing the guitar.

“I can’t.” Matt’s fingers move slowly, picking out the note sounds he remembers hearing.

The guitar strings vibrate as she sets it down. “That’s Try to Remember. The song Tony likes playing.”

“I don’t have all of it.” He can figure out the some of the notes Tony played, but not all of them. The other parts of the song don’t sound like any of the keys on the keyboard. Those were louder. Maybe more than one note together? Chords. That’s what he thinks they’re called.

“I don’t play.” Sound of the cushion moving on the piano bench as she sits on it. A small distance left between them. “But I’m sure Tony wouldn’t mind teaching you.”

“He’s busy.” The idea of Tony Stark teaching him the piano is laughable. He’s always doing something. Walking fast, going to build something or getting dragged to some charity event.

“He’ll make time for this.” No lie in Pepper’s heart.

***

“Tell me again.”

Matt groans, fighting the urge to knock his head against the car window. Steve is a solid presence by his side. Marci beside him. Foggy in the passenger seat next to the driver. A guy named Happy who’s taken them to various places before.

“Matt,” Foggy prompts calmly. “Come on bud, tell me again.”

Slumping down in his seat, Matt repeats the words. “It doesn’t matter what they say or think of me. They don’t know me. You know me, and you like me. That’s what matters.”

“Good job buddy.” A smile in Foggy’s voice. “One more time.”

***

“It doesn’t matter what they say or think of me,” Matt repeats the words, voice high pitched and panicked in the small room he uses to decompress after walking into the courthouse. The headphones are over his ears. His therapy jacket hugs him. Steve’s hands are solid and grounding on his shoulders. “They don’t know me. Foggy knows me. Foggy likes me. That’s what matters.”

His ears ring with all the people telling him it’s his fault. ‘You’re ruining that boy’s life?’ ‘How do you live with yourself?’ And voice upon voice chanting ‘Free Justin Fletcher! Free Justin Fletcher!’

The hate in their voices feels like it’s covering him. A slimy substance that leeches into his skin. He wants to scrub until it comes off. Until he can’t feel the way Bubblegum patted his cheek after he was done with him, like Matt was a thing to be used. Not a person.

“It doesn’t matter what they say or think of me.” But it does. It does matter.

***

“Are you deaf?” The old man asks from the witness stand. “I just told you Daredevil saved my life. Do I need to write it down for you?”

Nerves in the ADA’s voice. “I understand that you think that sir, but can you be sure the man sitting behind me is the man you say saved you?”

The old man snorts. “Would you make up your damn mind. First he is Daredevil. The next moment you say he isn’t. You trying to say every time you think you can peg a crime on him, he’s Daredevil? And the moment someone says he did something good, why, that’s someone else?”

“If you could just answer the question…”

Today the defence shows the rest of the witnesses here to defend Daredevil. Some act as character witnesses, sharing good deeds he’s done. Others were present at the crimes he’s accused of, and tell a different story to the ones the prosecution say happened. A few of the more timid witnesses bend to the prosecutions questions acquiescing that maybe they were wrong. It was dark. Perhaps it was a different man under the suit.

Some like the old man defend him fiercely.

“How do you know it wasn’t the defendant causing the fire escape to collapse in the first place?” the ADA asks the quiet seeming woman in the witness stand. Marci makes a pleased noise at Matt’s side. She’s right. This is a desperate move. They’re grasping at straws.

Scorn in the woman’s voice. “Because I’m not an idiot.”

“His hair was funny and sticking up,” the little girl says with the same amount of scorn when she’s asked if she’s sure it was Matt who saved her from being run over. “And his eyes were extra pretty. I saw his face. I’m six, not _stupid_.”

Matt usually plays with his marble maze during court. Moving the marble through the cloth maze, back and forth, back and forth. It’s the least obvious of his stim toys. Sometimes he sorts through the fact cards the others made him. Or shuffles his braille playing cards and tries to memorise the order. Foggy bought him a stress ball shaped like an avocado, and at his worst points he uses that.

Today he spends most of his time listening to these strangers taking time out of their day to defend him.

“I thank God every day that Daredevil was there,” an elderly sounding woman says. “He saved my life.” A man. “Thought I was a goner,” a teenager says. “I screamed and screamed, and somehow he heard me and came.” “He made me realise there were good people left in the world.” “If it weren’t for him, my son would be dead.” “Thank God for Matthew Murdock.”

***

The air is wrong when they step out of the courthouse.

When you live your life guided by senses most people don’t know they have, there are some things you just know. Like anger. Anger is tense muscles, something in the voice, harsh breathing, and something else. The something else is possibly a smell, possibly just a feeling. He’s never sure. All he knows is it feels like static electricity on his skin, it sets his teeth on edge, and his brain screams danger. Fight, run, do something.

This is that, and more.

He grips Steve’s elbow tighter, not sure what to do. They stop. Something is wrong. Sound of scuffling feet he can hear over the headphones. Mix of voices, shouting, asking questions. A spattering of chants to ‘free Justin Fletcher.’ The security is having trouble keeping the crowds back.

“We’ll sort this Murdock,” Marci says from his other side. Determination in her voice. “Go to your happy place.”

When he gets back to the tower he can change into soft clothes. Sam texted to say the black kitten started opening his eyes. They’re wriggling around more, so Matt wants to put them on the carpet in the communal lounge and see how they do with walking before therapy. Kate’s present should arrive today. He can wrap it.

Lots of movement on his left side. A woman’s voice. Enough of that anger to choke on. “You bastard! You took my husband from me! My son got beat up at school because of the lies you told!” Lots of sharp movement. She tries to reach for Matt, but Steve and at least one security is in the way.

Baseball Bat’s wife. He can’t hear her heart through the headphones, but she sounds like she believes what she’s saying. How can she still not believe what Baseball Bat did? Jessica showed her the stills from the video with Baseball Bat’s surgical scars. A lot of hurt in her voice.

Matt tugs on Steve’s elbow. He wants to go now.

“In a moment,” Steve says softly, his body tense. “It’s not safe.”

They must be having problems keeping back the crowd. Or maybe just Baseball Bat’s wife. Grunts of effort say she’s doing her best to break through. Matt shuffles closer to Steve. Lucky leans against his legs.

“She’s right!” Another female voice screams. Everything stops at that scream. “My boyfriend is in jail because of him!”

There are other voices. Ones screaming about the basketball star who was going to bring glory to their college team. Matt barely hears them.

He tugs on Steve’s arm again, more insistent. He needs to go. He can’t be here. Danger, his brain screams at him. His heart beats too fast. His breathing comes too quick. Lucky leans heavier against his side, and it doesn’t help.

Scuffle of someone falling? Almost falling? Sharp movement from Steve that almost makes Matt trip backwards over a step. _That_ voice again. Lots of movement. Confusing.

Sudden movement from Steve that does make him fall over. He lands lighter than he should on the concrete steps, hands on his arms slowing him down. Form hovering over him. Steve. Doing what? Loud sound of flesh slapping against flesh. An angry scream. The wife this time. She’s trying to hit Matt. And Steve’s protecting him.

Then Steve’s gone. There’s only his voice. Angry. “Why don’t you look at the facts before you go beating up someone who doesn’t deserve it?”

Matt’s alone on the steps. There’s nothing but looming, voices, and smells. Trembling travels down his limbs. Movement and clink clink clink as the sunglasses fall off his face. Gone somewhere. His shaking hand can’t find them.

People, movement, arguing. What if one of them tried to attack him? He wouldn’t know until the blow connected. He’s helpless like this. Quickly he pushes the headphones off his ears. He needs to find that voice. Old Spice’s girlfriend.

Noise rams into his head. “Mr Murdock?” and hearts beating fast. Scuffling feet as the crowd gets pushed by people wanting to see. To see him? “What’s your response to her?” “Do you regret damaging Justin Fletcher’s basketball career?” “Mr Murdock, are you feeling alright?” “Are you having a panic attack?”

“He ruined my family!” Baseball Bat’s wife screams. “They’re hunting my husband like an animal. You should rot in jail where you belong!”

Foggy’s hands find him, and he’s not alone anymore. Lucky joins a moment later, licking and nudging. “You’re fine Matt. We’re going home, OK?”

Marci’s voice telling everyone to move back. This man needs medical attention. And somehow there’s shuffling, and the warmth of the looming bodies around him move away. The questions stop.

***

Matt walks over to the kitchen table and shows Steve the card again. ‘Enemy.’

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a xanax?” Tiredness in Steve’s voice, but patience too.

Matt shakes his head. He doesn’t like how reliant he’s getting on them.

Graceful movement as Natasha moves over to them. She’s slower than she should be lowering herself into the chair. She still gets tired easily. “You in one of your loops Matt?”

“He keeps showing me this card.” Slide of Velcro against wood as Steve passes it to her. “It’s about the mess earlier outside the courthouse. I’ve asked if it has to do with Rowe and he says no.”

Creak as Natasha leans back in her chair. “You know when you get caught in one of these, you’re supposed to take a step back from your thoughts. Try to calm down and see it from a different angle.”

He knows. It’s just difficult. That voice circles around and around in his head. Smell of alleyway, blood, worse things. A voice saying _‘Are you sure this is daredevil? What a fucking baby.’_

He paces the floor, trying to calm down. Trying to think of another way to explain. But those words and sensations fill up his entire head, and it’s all he can do to point at the card on the table again.

“Enemy,” Natasha says slowly. A long pause. “Not Rowe. The others are in custody.” Her heart speeds up. “Karen and Jessica said they thought there might be a seventh person on the video.”

Gripping his hair, Matt nods his head rapidly. Yes. That’s it. That’s what he’s been trying to communicate. His mouth opens to add more, but nothing comes out.

“Let’s try something different,” Natasha says. “Tell me what you thought of Ponyo.”

***

Kittens are not conductive to wrapping presents.

Matt patiently removes the smallest kitten from the paper he’s trying to tape up. Her muscles are taut under his hand as he places her back on the carpet. Her whole body tense with the effort of walking. Seesaw movement as she falls on her face again. She pushes herself to her feet, wobbles and wriggles her way back towards her brothers.

“The seventh was a woman,” Matt says as he tapes up the box carefully. One line down the middle. Then fold one side of the wrapping paper and tape it. “She was there.”

Sound of Natasha wrapping up her present too. She refused to tell him what she got Kate, but Matt knows anyway. Some kind of candle. It smells strangely like Steve after a walk through the woods in Catskills.

Fold the last side. Tape carefully. “Old Spice’s girlfriend.”

Slight rise in Natasha’s heart-rate. Tapping of plastic. Texting someone. “Getting your police contact to bring her in now.”

Card on the coffee table. He finds a piece. Folds it in half. Takes care to avoid the glitter Natasha used on her card. That stuff gets everywhere. “I-I don’t think she did anything. I don’t really - don’t really remem- maybe just laughed?”

“You lawyer types can decide what she’s guilty of.” More tapping of plastic. A mew that makes Natasha stop what she’s doing to scoop up a tiny heartbeat. “I’m more concerned about whether we can use this to make the case against them more solid.”

Matt’s hand is shaking too much to write a message. Putting the card and pen down, he reaches for the nearest tiny heartbeat instead. One of the boys from the size. He nuzzles into Matt’s palm. “Old Spice said something.”

“Yeah?” Natasha holds her tiny heartbeat close. “Anything we can use?”

Matt flicks through the PECS book with his free hand. Finds ‘enemy’ ‘make’ ‘video.’

“OK.” The kitten in her arms mews when the lack of skin against fur says she stopped stroking it. Movement as she starts up again. “Old Spice made the video. We know that part.”

Old Spice edited and posted the video, which means he had to at least have a part of it. Jessica said as much to the others. She thinks if he had enough access to it to edit and upload it without the others knowing, then either he had a copy, or he keeps the originals. Either way, it’s possible he has a less edited copy somewhere. They didn’t find it at his home or work. But maybe…

“He said…” The words trail off. He tries finger-spelling, but the letters get mixed up. Huffing, he reaches for another piece of card. Slowly etches out a word, running his fingers over the letters to remind him what’s he’s already written. Shows it to her.

Click of her taking a picture. “I’m sending this to a Matt expert.” The reply comes through a moment later. “Foggy says you wrote trust.”

Matt nods, trying not to think of the smile in Old Spice’s voice.

Natasha’s heart beats surprise. “On the tape Short said he only trusted one person. His girlfriend. You think she’s hiding the videos for him.”

Another nod. The kitten tries to climb his hoodie.

“And she’s involved.” A smile in Natasha’s voice. It sounds predatory. “We can use this.”

***

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Precisely nothing,” Sam says, sitting beside him on the large couch. “But since when have the media ever cared about that?”

Foggy and Bruce move around in the kitchen area making supper. Bucky seems to be trying to teach Thor some kind of electronic game over on the small couch. Clint and Natasha disappeared when Brett told them he was bringing Old Spice’s girlfriend in for questioning. Tony and Steve sit around the kitchen table, asking Olivia about babies. Steve sticking to compliments and polite questions about how she’s coping. Tony asking rapid fire questions about child development, which is a little worrying.

The baby is warm in his arms. His name is Asha, and to be honest he smells pretty bad. Matt gets the feeling the nice newborn smell the Nelson babies have doesn’t come until they’re older than a week. Right now at five days old he smells of iron, and a slight layer of rot and pus Foggy says is due to his umbilical cord.

Olivia took the baby back from Foggy after she helped Matt make a statement comprised of several of the transcripts of him talking to Lucky and the things he’s managed to tell Fiona, fussed over him a minute, then handed him to Matt and walked away. Like she trusts him.

Asha’s heartbeat is tiny. Everything about him is so tiny and fragile. The way his heart slows when Matt cradles him just right makes his throat clench with some emotion he can’t name.

“It’s wrong,” Matt says quietly. “It’s like every rape case where the defence tries to drag the victim’s sexual history into it. Like that has anything to do with it. They don’t think they’ll get away with doing it in court, so they’re letting the media do it for them. And this wasn’t even like that.”

“Ooh.” Foggy’s footsteps walk over to the large couch. Heavy sound of flesh against wood as he sits on the coffee table. “Story time. Come on Matty, I want to hear about your romantic escapes with this dashing boy from your school. While you were living in a catholic orphanage with nuns! They could make this into a movie.”

Matt giggles despite himself, trying not to jostle the baby. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t romantic. I’m not even sure if we were real friends or not. His father got it all wrong. They just dug this up because - you know…”

“They think if they prove you’ve had romantic relations with someone of the same sex that makes you less of a victim.” The ever present smile in Olivia’s voice is barely there. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

The newest headline for the tabloids. Father claims: Matthew Murdock seduced my son. At least, Matt hopes it’s only headlining the tabloids. He might lose all his faith in the media if it’s headlining regular newspapers. “I was thirteen. It was two kisses total, and I wouldn’t count them as kisses now. It’s complicated. I was even worse at the friend thing than when I met Foggy.”

“Oh God.” A note in Foggy’s voice that says he’s remembering just how screwed up Matt was back then. “You must’ve been terrible.”

“Hopeless.” Matt grins at the memory. There are very few things in his childhood that are good memories. He hates the media for dragging up the few times he felt almost happy and painting them as a bad thing. “He cried every day and I hated him for it. I could hear him in the school bathrooms. I was really angry at everything. But more than that, I was angry at how sad and violent the world seemed to be. Kids used to bully him because he had no hair, and sometimes he’d smell really bad, like chemicals. So I figured if I stopped them, he’d stop crying.”

“Baby Daredevil.” Movement as Foggy nods. “I’m both appalled that you started that early, and completely unsurprised.”

“They cornered him after school. I was waiting for someone to pick me up, so I snuck up on them. I kind of lost it? They were the first kids I hit since…” He clears his throat, jigging the baby soothingly. “I forgot how little pain they can take. So they were bawling and bleeding. He smelt like blood. They cut his lip or something. I was standing over them waiting for him to thank me. He yells ‘what the hell is wrong with you?’ Drops to his knees and starts soothing the guy who beat him up. Told me to go get an adult.”

“How badly did you beat them up?” Bruce asks from the kitchen area.

“Not bad. I didn’t even break any bones.” Matt doesn’t understand why Foggy’s heart speeds up at that. “So I was really confused. I turned it over in my head for days, and he kept crying in the bathroom, and kids kept pushing him around. I came up with a new plan. I strode up to him in the playground, and said I’d teach him how to defend himself. He sort of agreed, very reluctantly. And - it didn’t go well.”

Bucky sounds intrigued. “What’s didn’t go well?”

“I -uh - accidentally broke his nose.”

“Strike two for baby Daredevil.” Sudden movement from Foggy. A wince? “I’m cringing in sympathy Matt. I would have thought nuns would be all over teaching the friendship thing.”

“They didn’t have time.” Too many other kids, and Matt was supposed to be independent at that age. The time spent guiding him was already more attention than the other teenagers had. And Matt had been selfish. Not wanting to admit he didn’t need a guide to and from school in case he had to give up that small time of attention and physical contact. “I gave up after that. But sometimes he’d let me sit next to him when he was reading. And sometimes he talked. About what he was reading. Or other things. He was really kind to everyone. It was nice to be around that after hearing the things I heard. It wasn’t really a friendship. It was more that he tolerated me. It turned out he had cancer. It was bad. But he wanted to die, because he was gay. I was angry because he was giving up. He went into this huge rant about how he’d never get a boyfriend anyway because of the things the other kids told him. So I…”

“I’m covering my face in despair.” Foggy’s voice sounds muffled. “You kissed him, didn’t you?”

“It was more of a head-butt.” Matt offers him a grin. “But yes.”

“Why am I not surprised? Matt Murdock’s first kiss was an act of self sacrifice.”

Matt grimaces. “I also told him that if he went into remission I’d kiss him again and be his boyfriend. I was naive for a kid who heard everything. I didn’t really know how that stuff worked. And attraction didn’t come into it. After my Dad died I fell into obsession after obsession. Studying, training, meditating, trying to understand how to socialise. So I was kind of late to the game when it comes to being attracted to people? Maybe fifteen or sixteen?”

“You are ruining my image of you as a high school Casanova.” Movement. Foggy shakes his head. “Go on. That’s one kiss. What about the second?” His heart speeds up. “This isn’t going to be a bad story, is it?”

Matt shakes his head, then shrugs. Sort of. “He went into remission. He invited me to a party at his house to celebrate. Pulled me aside, then kissed me. I was terrified. I’d recently learnt that boyfriends do more than kissing, and all of that stuff seemed really gross to me. I froze. But the kiss wasn’t - it was like the ones you give me when someone shoves us under the mistletoe at Christmas.”

Movement as Foggy nods, understanding. “A platonic kiss.”

“Yeah. Then he told me that while he liked me, he wanted to be my friend instead of my boyfriend. It meant a lot.” From when his Dad died to when he met Foggy, that might be his happiest memory. Being offered friendship without having to give anything in return.

“Aww, is it over?” Tony asks from the kitchen table behind the large couch. “No more story time with baby Daredevil?”

“If you want a happy ending, then it’s over.” Asha makes a soft noise by his chest. He’s tensing his muscles too tight. He forces himself to relax. “Shush, you’re OK. I’m sorry.” Repositioning the baby, he offers him a finger. Asha grips it tightly. The infant’s heart slows down. Holding onto people seems to calm him. Matt’s the same way.

Sam’s a warm presence by his side on the couch. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.”

“The next day his father came to school. Beat me up in the playground in front of everyone. He saw his son kissing me. I didn’t fight back. Too obvious. The police came. Asked what happened. Then dragged me away instead of him. Took me on a long car ride and told me how useless it would be to press charges. Even talked about charging me with something. It took a long time before they agreed to drop me back at the orphanage.” They’d threatened to drive him outside the city at first, and drop him somewhere he didn’t know. It was only him reminding them how that would look, them leaving a blind injured teenager in the middle of nowhere that made them reconsider.

Steve sounds angry. “Did you press charges?”

“Of course.” It took a long time to convince one of the nuns to guide him to the station. You’d think he was the one going around beating kids up. “Only, it didn’t go anywhere. Sometimes the law doesn’t work.”

That seems to make Steve angrier. Bucky, Foggy, and Tony too judging by their heartbeats.

“What happened to your friend?” Foggy asks through gritted teeth.

“His father sent him away to one of those facilities that claim they can ‘cure’ people who are gay. After a few months he came back. He and his priest sat me down. He’d changed. Told me what we did was wrong, and I needed to pray for my soul or I’d go to hell.” Matt shakes his head. He still doesn’t know how he changed so suddenly. Only that he seemed to believe what he was saying. “It took me a while to go back to church after that. Not all the nuns agreed, but some of them did. It didn’t seem right that people could get so riled up over who someone kissed when there was much worse things going on.”

“They used to use electric shock in those places. Drugs to produce nausea while being shown same sex pornography.” Sam lets out a harsh sigh. “It’s brainwashing. And it doesn’t work. All it’s successful at is increasing self hate, anxiety, and suicidality.”

“It didn’t work for him either.” He may as well tell the whole story. “He came back after about a year. Said he’d changed his mind. Wanted to be friends. I was still broke up about him leaving. So I said no.”

Sam shifts at his side. “You have a right to feel-”

“That night he killed himself,” Matt says quickly. His arms are too tense. Asha makes a noise of protest, but he can’t relax. “He lived close to the orphanage. I should’ve heard him, but I was asleep.”

Steve’s voice is soft from the kitchen table. “That’s not your fault Matt.”

“If I’d been awake I might’ve made it in time.” Or if he hadn’t been so caught up in himself and agreed to be his friend. Or his boyfriend. Or whatever could’ve kept him alive. “I’m disturbing the baby.”

“I got him.” Sam’s gentle as he takes the warm bundle away.

As soon as Asha’s heartbeat is gone from his chest, he misses it. But it’s good to be able to curl up in the corner of the couch. Forehead against cool leather, and arms wrapped around himself. “He says he’s hungry.”

Foggy’s weight drops on the couch in front of his legs. “You speak baby now?”

“His stomach’s rumbling.” Soft dropped on his knees. He wraps the fleece blanket over his chest. It’s good to grip in his hands. Right, he’s dissociating. He focuses on the texture of the fleece to ground himself. It’s tempting to let himself float, but he should try and avoid that if he can.

“People need to sleep pal,” Bucky says from the small couch. “Anything that happens while you sleep isn’t your responsibility. Same as when you’re in the tower resting.”

When he’s in the tower, ignoring everyone outside. Keeping all the noises out with the thick walls and high altitude. He blinks, the floating feeling taking on a pleasant buzz between his ears. “I need to talk about something else now.” Or he’s going to have a hard time convincing himself to connect with the world around him again.

“OK.” Movement as Sam gets up. Presumably to take Asha to his mother. “But we’re very proud of you for talking so openly with us about this.”

Matt flushes. Warmth settling in his chest, like it always does when one of them says they’re proud of him. “If they’re spreading lies across the tabloids, you might as well know what really happened.”

“I vote we talk about whose choice of movie it is tonight,” Tony says from the kitchen area.

***

“Matt? What’s going to happen at the restaurant tomorrow?” Bruce asks softly as Matt picks at his food, waiting for everyone to sit down in front of the television.

Matt shifts his legs against the couch. “We’re going to walk in the front door and there might be people and noise. I can wear my headphones. Someone can guide me. We might have to queue if it’s busy, but our room is booked so it shouldn’t be for long. Then to the right. Along a hallway. Our room is all the way at the end by the fire escape. If anything goes wrong we can leave by there. Kate, Marci, Karen, Jessica and Luke might be there. There’ll be singing. We should get the same waiter for the whole night. It should finish about midnight, but I don’t need to stay that long if I don’t want to.”

Foggy ruffles his hair from where he sits next to him on the large couch cushion. “Your memory is freaky sometimes Murdock.”

“You weren’t saying that when it helped us win all that money memorising cards,” Matt points out. Puts a forkful of food in his mouth. Cauliflower rice and salmon. Very plain. It’s been a plain food kind of week with exceptions made for chocolate. Thankfully he’s a step up from oatmeal and soup.

Sound of the elevator. Natasha and Clint’s heartbeats. Whoosh as the doors open.

“Oh thank God, food.” Clint’s footsteps make their way to the kitchen table where the serving bowls are.

Natasha’s graceful footsteps move around the couch. Silence for a long moment after there’s the flesh against wood sound of her sitting on the edge of the coffee table. “We did it.”

“You what?” Large movement as Foggy swings his legs off the side of the couch. “You found the original?”

There’s a smile in Natasha’s voice. She sounds happy. “She was only loyal to her boyfriend as long as it wasn’t her freedom in danger. The moment the possibility of charging her with something was mentioned, she told Mahoney exactly where the videos were.”

Everyone’s hearts speed up. Foggy’s goes through the roof. “Videos. Plural?”

“Everyone was sent copies, but it was Short who kept the hard copies. Eleven DVDs. Each labelled with a date. Right now we only know that Matt’s is among them and there are glimpses of faces on the footage. And potential other victims. Mahoney is keeping an eye on things to make sure none of the evidence goes missing while forensics are processing it. The girlfriend’s going to testify what she knows.”

“Natasha Romanov.” Clink as Foggy puts his bowl down on the coffee table. “You are beautiful and awesome, and if I didn’t think you’d put me in a headlock I would kiss you right now. This is amazing!”

Clint’s voice. Muffled. “Wha abou’ m’ kiss?”

“Clint Barton, you’re also awesome, but I’m not going to kiss you while your mouth is full.” The couch shifts. Foggy turning again. Towards Matt. “Matt isn’t this amazing? If they have their faces on video there’s no point in threatening you. Even if you withdrew your support it wouldn’t affect the case.”

Matt feels strange. Like something is crushing him. “Do you -do you think I’ll have to testify?”

“You don’t have to testify.” All the happiness drops out of Foggy’s voice. “You never needed to. That’s always been a choice.”

Before testifying would’ve improved their chances of winning exponentially. Video is good, but even with other identifying information like voices, the jury might not trust it without faces. If they have faces, the video could guarantee convictions on its own.

Then he wouldn’t need to testify.

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice turns soft. “Do you want to testify?”

Testifying means sitting on the witness stand at six different trials. Someone who raped him sitting in the same room, staring. Lots of people staring. Reporters among them, ready to jot down his every word. Having to say what happened to strangers. Then having every word challenged by the defence whose job it is to make it sound like he’s the one at fault. They debated this once at university. Whether rape victims should be protected from having to testify in court. Some claiming the defendant had the right to meet their accuser. A few stray comments about what a traumatic experience it might be. One girl argued that rape victims should testify because it would provide closure. Maybe it would for some people, but Matt feels like he’s he’s barely opening up about what happened, let alone being anywhere close to closure.

“What if I need to for them to go away?” Matt whispers. “I don’t want to hear them in the street while I’m walking to work, or getting groceries.”

“Matt, can we try something?” Sam asks from the smaller couch by Thor’s and Bruce’s heartbeats. “Try pretending for a moment that it won’t matter if you testify or not. That they’ll go to jail either way. No one would think of you any differently if you did or not. Would you choose to testify?”

Matt shakes his head.

“OK.” The couch jumps a little as Steve sits on the cushion next to Matt’s. “How about this? We’ll look at the evidence the forensics come back with. If we think your testimony wouldn’t make a difference, you won’t testify. If it might, we’ll talk about it again later.”

Matt nods. That sounds OK. If everything goes well he won’t have to make any decisions. Making a decision about this makes his chest feel too tight.

“This is good news Matt.” Foggy’s warmth settles back against him. “You won’t have to worry about Rowe sending his goons after us again. With any luck he’ll come to his senses and turn himself in.”

“I know.” Part of him wishes he were anxious enough for Lucky to sense it and start nudging him, so he’d get to stroke his fur. “It’s just a lot.”

***

“And the men tried to break him,” Matt says as he eats oatmeal on Thursday morning. “They hit him, kicked him, tied him to a post without food or water for three days, but he didn’t break.”

“Yeah pal?” Bucky’s hands fuss with his hair. “Y’know this hair’s getting wild. We might need to cut it.”

Clink of metal against ceramic as Foggy eats cereal in the chair next to Matt’s. “I didn’t get to cut it much last time. It’s overdue.”

Today’s already a good day. Tony was awake early, or late, it’s hard to say with him, and showed him how to play cords on the piano. They went for a run. Steve tried to compete with Matt’s parkour moves, and Matt won every time. Bucky and Sam laughed a lot. “He broke for a little bit. He got tired. But then he got up again. He escaped.”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s chair scrapes against the floor as he drags it back toward the table. “You liked the movie last night then?”

Matt nods, swallowing another mouthful of oatmeal. “Later he broke for longer. But he got back up again. He always got back up.”

“Spirit had his friends to help him, didn’t he?” There’s a strange note to Foggy’s voice. Maybe upset? “The second time. He let them help him, and he started feeling better.”

That’s true.

Something buzzing with electricity in Bucky’s hands. “Says here there’s an audio-book based on the movie. Today’s gonna be a lot of waiting around. Wanna order it?”

“They took him from his family.” His hand shakes in the bowl. Suddenly he’s not hungry.

“That’s not going to happen to you,” Foggy says firmly. “Even if you were convicted, which is not going to happen, the chances of them revoking your bail are slim. You’d still come home with us until they decided the details of your sentence.”

Today started as a good day. He should be happy. Instead nerves buzz around inside him like a cloud of flies. Making everything in his head too dark and noisy. Concentrating on the movie about the stallion who couldn’t be broken makes everything seem OK when it’s really not. He tries to cling to that good feeling of being in another place where they can never break Spirit for long. He always gets back up.

Foggy’s hand rests on his shoulder. “Order the book Buck. We can listen to it while the jury deliberates.”

***

“Mr Murdock, is it true you had a same sex relationship?”

“Are you gay?”

“Why did you injure Mr Fletcher’s hand?”

“Do you feel guilty for injuring Justin Fletcher?”

“What do you think the outcome will be today?”

The crowd is more riled up today. Maybe because it’s the last day, or it should be depending on how long the jury deliberates for. Lots more movement around him. He stays close to Bucky.

If anyone breaks through, he’s not to do anything that could be considered an act of aggression. Foggy told him that. Pepper says the outcome of these cases depends more on public opinion than people like to think. And if he does anything that could be seen as aggressive, and he is found guilty, the judge could revoke his bail. He might have to go into jail straight away.

It’s difficult not to react to all this shouting and sudden movement with Foggy and the others close by. His body tells him to protect them, as much as it tells him to hide.

“Do you have anything to say to Justin Fletcher’s parents?”

“Don’t you think Mr Fletcher has suffered enough?”

Public opinion of Matt took a huge nosedive since Bubblegum was arraigned. Rich kid. Well connected family. The star of a well supported college basketball team. ‘You should leave that nice young man alone,’ an elderly woman told him earlier that week when he’d picked up cakes from Ed’s bakery.

No one but Baseball Bat’s wife defends any of the other rapists.

“What do you say to those people who say you should be charged with assault for causing Justin Fletcher’s career ending injury?”

Something hard in Foggy’s voice. Angry. “Take him inside.”

Marci. “Foggy?”

“I said, take him inside.”

Matt’s inside the hard floor, echoing ceiling of the courthouse before he realises Foggy’s still outside. Shaking his head, he tugs on Bucky’s arm. They can’t leave him out there.

“Foggy knows what he’s doing.” Marci sounds so sure.

Matt’s hand shakes as he knocks off his headphones. He needs to hear.

“…my client is not on trial for being raped.” Foggy’s voice is sharp as he finishes whatever point he’d made. He sounds predatory. Like he did during debate class when he went in for the kill. “Second. I’d like to quote something for you. Something that’s public record. The charges against Justin Fletcher. Assault in the third degree. False imprisonment. And two counts of rape. All charges placed because of video evidence. The police are pursuing these charges because of video and other evidence. Whether or not he’s found guilty is for the courts to decide. Not me, not you, and not my client. So I’ll thank you to stop harassing him.”

***

“I may have gotten a little angry,” Bucky reads out Steve’s message an hour after closing statements, while they’re waiting for the jury to deliberate. “Dumbass. He knows he’s not supposed to talk to reporters when he’s angry. I’m asking him what the hell he did.”

Matt tilts his head, perching on one uncomfortable plastic chair and using another to spread out his fact cards.

Marci and Foggy don’t pause in whatever they’re doing. It involves slapping down cards fast and heavily.

“He called a bunch of reporters victim blaming assholes.” Slight gleeful note in Bucky’s voice. “And now he’s trying to justify himself by saying Tony called them worse things. Pepper could have her work cut out for her.”

Matt picks up the card that reminds him Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are his friends. It’s comforting despite the tension of the room.

***

“I don’t understand.”

The car rumbles beneath them, taking them somewhere. Back to the tower. Matt’s been signing ‘I don’t understand’ since court. Words from the judge that echoed and didn’t make sense. Then shouting, cheering, yelling from the crowds behind them. Lots of words that don’t seem to have meaning attached to them, from Foggy, Bucky, Marci, the crowd they’d passed through to get back to the car.

Foggy says those words again, but Matt’s heart beats too fast. His emotions swirl around and around his head, and it’s like they sweep up the meaning of the word with them. He should know what they’re trying to tell him, but he doesn’t. Just like he doesn’t know what happened to all that time between the verdict being read out in court and now.

Bucky’s hands, gentle on his shoulders. “We’re going home.”

Back to the tower. That makes sense. The day must be over. “When do I go back to court?” Sentencing can take between one to twelve months, but they might fast track it with a case this high profile.

Foggy’s hands replace Bucky’s on his shoulders. They grip firmer. “You don’t go back. Not for this. Matt, not guilty. They said you're not guilty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter:
> 
> Some people are homophobic. And the usual victim blaming, people who think rich famous people can't rape, harassing reporters, strong emotions, Matt's distorted world views, and Matt's frightening mind. A mention of baby Matt using excessive violence against other kids. A mention of an adult beating up a child. A mention of homophobic culture that includes police mistreating said child, and child not getting justice via police system. A mention of a gay teenager being sent to an antigay camp to 'cure homosexuality.' Mention of a gay teenager committing suicide. 
> 
> Let me know if there's any other trigger warnings you think should be added here for this chapter.
> 
> Other notes on this chapter =
> 
> The movie with the horse is Spirit Stallion of the Cimarron. Matt likes it because the main character has serious Matt Murdock level stubbornness. And like Matt says, the character may break, but he always gets back up and keeps fighting. I imagine he also likes the epic music. 
> 
> The flashback Matt links to the seventh person showing up partway through his attack ‘Are you sure this is daredevil? What a fucking baby.’ was first mentioned in the first chapter. It's only a very mild clue that someone was present during the attack that wasn't there during the unmasking, but thought I'd mention it in case anyone was interested.
> 
> Note: I start a new job next week and anticipate my mental health going kablooey. So can't guarantee weekly updates. But I do have drafts of chapters to 58 complete, so I'll be posting more. I just need to see how hard this hits me before I can say when and how often those updates will be. Maybe every two weeks? And I don't think I'm working sundays, so maybe then? We'll see. I'll try to remember to give an estimate when I post the next chapter.


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoilery trigger warnings for this chapter. 
> 
> It took me half a dozen attempts and walking around the room with my laptop looking for signal in order to upload this chapter. The internet is playing up today.

“My Dad said as long as I knew I was a good person, it didn’t matter what other people thought about me,” Matt tells Fiona in the room with the sand tray.

They’d started the session by making a sand tray this time, because Matt was still finding everything difficult to process after being told he won’t need to go to jail. This tray he has no idea about. He’d just placed people, more people, and more people in the tray. Chaos. Some standing, some lying, some fighting. He doesn’t know what any of it means. Fiona says that’s fine.

There’s something about the mediative calm of placing figures in the tray, shaping the soft sand, that makes his head quieter afterwards. It’s easier to focus.

“Did that help you stop feeling so self-conscious?” Fiona asks from one of the beanbag chairs they use in this room. A short distance in front of Matt’s own beanbag chair.

Matt shrugs. “A little at first. Not so much after he died.” It’s hard to believe he’s a good person when he’s the reason his Dad died. “After a while I guess I just accepted people were going to whisper and stare at the blind kid.”

“How do you feel when people whisper and stare now?”

“It’s usually not because I’m blind. I can’t stop being blind.” Matt pulls his feet away from the flopped Lucky, onto the beanbag chair. The foam pellets shuffle beneath him. “But the PTSD and sensory issues. I don’t stim all the time. I don’t think I look panicked all the time. Sometimes I can talk, even outside the tower. And when I get caught in a loop, or only want to talk about easy topics like movies, sometimes I feel like I could pull myself together if I really tried, only I don’t remember how to do that. I don’t think I’m doing any of this to trick anyone or get attention, but it feels like I am, because it feels like I should be able to keep myself together all the time.”

Fiona makes a considering noise. “If you were walking down the street and you passed someone overtly stimming, would you treat them any differently?”

“I’d probably be happy that I wasn’t the only one,” Matt says honestly. “But unless they asked for help I would try to pay them as little attention as I did anyone else.”

“You know, those people who stare at your stimming. It’s likely they do the same thing to other people who stim.”

Matt hadn’t thought about that. He knows that Foggy’s cousin Belle stims, but it’s strange to remember he’s not the only one.

“In the future if you really want me to, I could coordinate with some people and help you make your more overt stims less obvious.” Fiona doesn’t sound happy about the idea. “But we’ve got to be careful. Your body is stimming as a coping mechanism. Since you’ve started stimming and communicating more your rate of self harm has gone right down. Some of that’s the medication, but I think some is down to your coping techniques. From what the others have told me you’re using stimming to relax enough to communicate, to face stressful situations, and it seems to help curb or delay panic attacks before they start. I know you feel self conscious about stimming, but given your history, I’m worried if we try to control it too much, your anxiety will rise and you won’t learn to accept stimming as a viable coping technique.”

“My Dad didn’t like it when I stimmed,” Matt admits, gripping the edge of the beanbag chair. The material isn’t silk, but it’s not too bad. “Neither did the nuns at the orphanage or Stick. Other people stim, so I know it can’t be a bad thing. But I’m supposed to be different. I’m supposed to have more self control.”

“Maybe you aren’t as different as you think.”

***

“Sorry,” Sam’s voice says from the communal lounge. “He needs some space right now.I doubt he’ll be out anytime soon.”

A note of surprise in Devan’s voice. “I can wait.”

“We’re leaving soon,” Foggy says. “Party. Jarvis filmed some of his physio exercises if you want to see the footage. And Jarvis can take you to Clint if you want to get his opinion.”

A long pause. Maybe accessing the footage. “Going anywhere nice?”

“Karaoke restaurant.” A smile in Foggy’s voice. “Should be fun.”

Matt crouches in the communal floor bathroom, huddled in the shower. He keeps his arms around Lucky, keeping him close. The doggy lavender smell is better than the artificial taste of skittles in the air. It hadn’t been so bad at first, baking a skittles cake for Kate. There’s something about the scent that sets him on edge, but he’d coped until the cake heated up in the oven and the entire room stank of skittles.

He’s not that anxious. It’s just disgusting. Jarvis has the vents going full blast, but it’ll be a while before all the smell is gone.

Until then he listens to the Spirit audio book and waits for the air to clear, or them to come up with another plan to get him out of the room.

***

“You’re kind of a smartass, aren’t you?” Kate asks after she opens the present from him.

Matt gives her an innocent smile. Glasses off so he doesn’t make Bucky uncomfortable. “Now you won’t get lost.”

“Well, the jokes on you.” Tiny tinkling of the metal chain as she puts it around her neck. “I don’t care if this is a joke present. It’s purple, and will probably come in handy. I’m wearing it forever.”

It’s a compass. Bright purple, and small enough that she can wear it around her neck as jewelry. Warmth settles in his chest as he listens to Clint fiddle with the clasp. Fond huff of exasperation from Natasha. Flesh against flesh as she pushes Clint aside. Tinkle of metal as she helps Kate put it on instead.

“Seriously I love it.” Kate’s heart beats truth. “Though you have to tell me. Did you mean to wrap it inside out?”

The smile drops off his face. Again? “Natasha, why didn’t you tell me?”

Natasha has a huffy breathy laugh. “Hey you got the job done. Who cares if the execution is a little unusual?”

Natasha sounds entirely too pleased about this. He crosses his arms over his chest and glares in her rough direction.

“I think the more pressing question is why Murdock did you draw a squiggle on the front of the card?” A pleased smile in Marci’s voice too.

“It’s not a squiggle, it’s a bow and arrow.”

“And this deformed cat on the inside next to your disgustingly adorable handwriting?”

“It’s a birthday cake. With candles.” In retrospect, drawing might not have been the best idea.

Slosh sound as Jessica takes a swig of whiskey. “Stick to your lawyer job Murdock. You’re no Da Vinci.”

“Alright. Alright. Stop insulting the blind man’s drawings.” A smile in Foggy’s voice. “Hey, that does look like deformed cat.”

Matt slumps against Foggy’s side. “Fog-gy.”

“Gotcha Matt. I think the drawing was a very noble effort.” Foggy’s arm slings over his shoulders, tugging him close. “Whose gift is next?”

It’s nicer than he thought it would be. The sound proof room isn’t very sound proof. He can hear heartbeats. Barely, and not as far as he usually can, but he can still hear them. Three more rooms in the building with customers inside. All singing along to different songs.

With the weight of court gone it’s easier to concentrate only on the people around him. Forensics haven’t finished processing the videos, but it’s looking like several new charges will be brought against the rapists from the footage with the other victims. All the videos viewed so far show Baseball Bat. Matt’s video has at least one clear shot of his face.

Matt withdrawing his statement would do nothing. The video alone would convict Baseball Bat. Which means no more threats. It’s good to be able to breathe easier.

Kate declares Clint not such an idiot when he gives her several boomerang arrows. Whatever those do. Tony gives Kate explosive arrows, and Steve lectures him about bringing explosives into a restaurant. Thor gives her some kind of ornamental knife which gets him a lecture too. Beer from Luke and Jessica. Hair ties from Karen which she declares magical because they work even when sparring. Clothing from Marci and Foggy. A bonsai tree from Bruce so she can be close to nature without getting lost in it. She declares him a smartass too.

Drawings from Steve. A leather jacket from Sam. A selfie stick from Bucky. Perfume from Pepper. Kate giggles with Clint for a solid thirty seconds while they sniff the candle Natasha got her. It gets passed around and most of the room cracks into helpless hysterics when Matt comments it smells a little like Steve. He swears he even hears Jessica laugh a little.

“Is this another social media thing?” Matt asks patiently when a whole minute has passed and only Thor, Steve, and Bruce seem capable of speech. Luke and Jessica might be too, but it’s hard to tell with them when they’re usually so quiet.

“Later buddy,” Foggy laughs into his shoulder, arms wrapped around him like he needs Matt to stay upright. “I will introduce you the glory that is tumblr conversations about Captain America and the boyfriend candle.”

“Boyfriend candle?” Steve sounds confused. Matt understands the feeling.

Foggy pulls away, landing a noisy kiss to the top of Matt’s head. “Don’t ever stop being awesome buddy.”

“OK,” Matt says, still unsure what the heck is happening.

Creaking of wood as Foggy stands up from the low table. He ruffles Matt’s hair softly. “Be right back. Bathroom.” His footsteps head toward the door. Sound of it opening, then closing.

It’s too cold without Foggy, so he shuffles on the wooden bench, closer to Bucky and Steve. He’s done with his food anyway. Bucky’s still making stifled laughing sounds. It can’t be _that_ funny. “Bucky, you should sing.” He wants to hear that rough smooth voice curl the notes like they did when he sung in Catskills.

“Yeah Bucky!” Kate calls out from the other side of the table. “Sing.”

The chant goes around the table. “Sing.” “Sing.” “Sing.”

“Well if the birthday girl insists,” Bucky says, drawling the words. “Any requests?”

Bucky ends up singing some kind of swing music that he bullies Steve into joining along with. Their voices take turns singing the lines, and it works surprisingly well. Soon half the room is singing along.

On the edge of his senses, Foggy’s heartbeat goes from relaxed to racing.

Matt’s on his feet and out the door in less than a second. Foggy’s voice. Sounds surprised. Angry too. “What are you doing here?”

A cough sound. Silenced bullet.

Foggy’s heartbeat is a few feet away, and he can’t find the door. Slamming his hands on the wall separating them, he follows the reverberations to smooth wood under his fingers. Thump sound of Foggy hitting the floor. No.

Pushing the door of the bathroom, he drops to his knees next to Foggy’s heartbeat. Copper tang fills his mouth. Blood. His hands shake as he finds the suit jacket. Silk lining that Matt likes to fiddle with when they sit close together. Scratchy cotton shirt and lots of warm, wet, not supposed to be there. Blood, blood, blood.

How is there so much of it?

The wound on Foggy’s stomach is searing hot. He presses down on it, earning a groan from Foggy. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Pressure. Then what? How did this happen? They were supposed to be safe. The warm liquid slicks over his hands. For a moment he’s not in a restaurant bathroom. He’s in an alleyway. There’s silence where there should be a heartbeat.

He blinks, and Foggy’s heart still beats, but it’s slow. It’s so slow.

“Matty.” Foggy’s voice is slurred. Wet. Not upset. Blood in his mouth. “Breathe.” He coughs. “Breathe buddy.”

Matt tries. He tries for Foggy.

Slam of door opening. Arms with Steve’s heartbeat pulling him away. Matt hits. Screams. The first noises he’s made since he heard Foggy’s heart race. Wall against his back. Steve’s arms tight around him. A hug. A restraint. He doesn’t know which. “Bucky and Sam are looking after Foggy. They have medical experience. They have him. An ambulance is on the way. We need to give them room to work.”

Matt tries to get to Foggy. He tries to stay away. Steve’s arms don't move.

Strangers come, and Steve reminds Matt again and again that they’re helping Foggy. Then they take Foggy away. Steve blocks his attempts to follow. Holds him. Shushes him.

Foggy’s heartbeat is buried under sirens by the time Matt’s mouth remembers how to speak. But all it can say is ‘Foggy.’

***

Foggy's heart is still beating.

Those words repeat over and over in his head. For a long time his mouth repeated them too, but he thinks it's stopped doing that. His hands press tight to the side of his head, wanting to cover his ears from the sound of hospital, but he can't.

He needs to listen to Foggy. He needs to keep him safe.

Not that he could do anything. He's four walls away from the operating room. There's a smooth slide sound of someone cutting through tissue. If they decided to kill him instead of save him, Matt wouldn't know until Foggy's heart stopped beating.

His body rocks back and forth on a floor that stinks of bleach. Sometimes his throat tries to hum before he reminds it he's supposed to be listening. Air currents say the room is small. A window. A door. Fabric that smells like disinfectant and dirty water. A bed.

Claire's warmth sits next to him. Close enough to reach out and touch. This isn't her hospital, so he's not sure how she managed to get them into this room. Maybe she told him before she stopped talking.

Sound of the door opening. Scent of blueberries, engine grease, and sunshine. Two new sets of footsteps.

Tony's voice. "My turn. Go get coffee."

Lots of fabric moving as Claire stands up. She'd been holding herself tightly. "He's still refusing xanax."

"Matt, sweetheart." Anna sounds like she's been crying. Careful movements as she sits next to him. Her soft arms enfold him loosely, not stopping his rocking. "Do you think you could take a pill for me honey?"

His whole body is tired. Tense. The rocking helps. It feels like it's the only thing keeping him together. That and the warm body of Lucky next to him.

"I know sweetheart," Anna says, like he's communicating instead of hanging onto sanity by a thread. "I'm worried too."

***

"So," Brett says as he sits next to him on the bench. "Are you planning on telling me what you're doing out here?"

Matt twists his cane between numb fingers. The jacket the other officer placed over his shoulders feels like it's the only point of warmth left on his body. "I thought I could help."

"By giving everyone a heart attack after the night they had?"

Matt ducks his head. He hadn't thought of it like that when he'd snuck off. "I - I thought if I went back to the restaurant. Tracked the shooter's scent..."

"Yeah?" A hard note to Brett's voice. "How'd that work out for you?"

It didn't. "There were a lot of scents. All piled on top of each other. And on solid surfaces like concrete and buildings scents can drift. I found one stuck to the grass outside the bathroom window. Strong, but artificial. Cologne." Like whoever it was covered their scent on purpose. "I lost the scent next to a road. Think they got in a car or a cab."

"And you're way out here freezing your toes off because?"

"I got lost." He hunches over, wrapping his arms around his chest. "I wanted to see if I could wander around. Pick up the scent or hear something. Only, I think I drifted. When I came back, I didn't know where I was."

Brett sighs heavily. "We've been looking for you for hours."

"I'm sorry." One of his hands moves to rub the 'sorry' sign into his chest. He didn't think they'd worry so much. He's used to Foggy worrying about him, but Foggy's...

Foggy won't be worrying about him for a while, if at all.

"Yeah, yeah, save it for your firing squad." Movement as he shakes his head. "Seriously Murdock, you live in the same building as the world's greatest heroes. One of them is literally a God. Didn't it occur to you to ask one of them to tag along, or at least tell them where you're going?"

Matt shrugs helplessly, not sure how to explain it. "It's Foggy." His voice cracks.

"I know." Another sigh, this one softer. "I know Murdock, but you’re not the only one who might lose a friend here. And you’re not the only one looking for answers. So do us a favour and don’t act like you’re some kind of lone ranger.”

***

Bucky squeezes him so tight he’s sure he hears his bones creak. His voice is a mixture of anger and relief. His heart races. “You idiot. Never do that again. Hear me? Never again.”

They’re standing in the middle of the hospital waiting room, dozens of people milling around them. Some of them whisper, recognising Steve, or Bucky, or Matt. For once Matt pays no attention to them, because Bucky is shaking. He stinks of fear sweat.

What happened to make Bucky so scared?

“Matthew Michael Murdock!” Heavy footsteps. Anna’s voice. Matt flinches at the tone, instinctively lowering his head when Bucky’s arms drop away. She sounds as terrifying as Sister Catherine, and it was only after mastering meditation that he stopped bawling in her presence after a few pointed words. “Young man, if you dare pull a stunt like that again, it’ll be no treats for a week. No, a month. We were worried sick. You could’ve been lying dead in a ditch somewhere for all we knew.”

Ned lets out an exasperated sigh. “Anna.”

“No Ned. Four hours you were gone. Anything could’ve happened.” Like a switch is flipped, the anger drops from her voice, and there’s wet upset instead. “Anything could’ve happened. Oh honey. Please don’t scare me like that again.”

Matt lets himself be wrapped up in another hug, confused. She stinks of fear sweat too. So do Ned and Steve. Why are they all so scared?

***

The monitor beep beeps out Foggy’s heartbeat.

They’re in a private room. Foggy has three private nurses that rotate in and out of his room throughout the day and night, so he always has one present at all times. There’s a security guard outside the door. Matt should think it’s unfair that Foggy has all this while voices around him complain about never being able to get ahold of a nurse when they need one. But it’s Foggy. Foggy deserves everything.

“He’s in an induced coma,” Steve explains while Matt half listens. “The bullet moved at an angle inside him. It hit his spleen, they had to remove it. It also damaged his pancreas and stomach. He’s being given blood to replace what he lost, and antibiotics. There are tubes in his side to drain fluid.”

Carefully, Matt takes one of Foggy’s hands. It’s too limp. The heartbeat thrumming through it is too slow. “When’s he going to -to w-wake up?”

“They’ll stop the drugs keeping him asleep when they think he’s stable enough.” Skin against skin. Steve touches Foggy’s other hand. A sigh. “But Matt, you have to know that a lot of things could go wrong.”

Matt shakes his head violently. “Foggy’s going to wake up.”

“He’s getting the best care. Tony and Claire are making sure of it. But just in case something does go wrong-”

“He’s going to wake up,” Matt repeats stubbornly. He is. He has to. A world without a Foggy isn’t a world at all. “He promised me. He promised he’d never leave.”

A long silence. “OK Matt,” Steve says, voice softer. “Let’s talk about something else. Why didn’t you take your satchel when you snuck out of the bathroom window?”

“Tony can track the computer.” Foggy’s hand is too cold. He tries to warm it up. “I couldn’t risk you finding me before I had a chance to look.”

“What makes you think we’d stop you?” Slight leap in Steve’s heart. Surprise.

Matt blinks. “Bucky was angry. So was Anna.”

“We were worried Matt.” Slight note of exasperation in Steve’s voice. “Foggy was shot, and we don’t even know if he was the target. We were all at that restaurant, including you. Then you go missing. If you’d told us what you were planning, one of us could go with you. Or at the very least we’d know you were safe. That you weren’t kidnapped, or injured, or killed.”

It’s strange, listening to these people who care about him.

“We’re not against you Matt.” Steve’s heart beats truth. “We want to help.”

***

“My husband didn’t do this,” the woman hisses. “How many times do I have to tell you people?”

A slam as Jessica puts something on the wooden desk. “This is the picture I showed you before. Your husband after he raped Mr Murdock. See the distinctive scar marks. A doctor confirmed it matched the photographs in Rowe’s medical record perfectly.”

Matt sits in the next room, back against the door. From the scent of fabric softener and faint scent of sex, it’s a bedroom. Jessica apparently lives in her office. There’s also blood. Old. It turns his stomach as much as the smell of sex. He doesn’t want to think about the smell of blood right now.

“My husband didn’t rape that man. I’ve been married to him for twelve years. Don’t you think I’d know if he were attracted to guys?”

To Matt’s left, Luke doesn’t flinch. The man stays quiet. Breath deep and even. He towers though he’s sitting on the floor same as Matt. From the lack of tension in his upper body it seems like he’s trying to appear smaller than he is. His bulk leaning against the door is comforting. No one could get through without a tank.

Sam crouches to the side of the door, a little in front of Matt. Ready to text Karen a message if Matt reads anything interesting in Baseball Bat’s wife’s heartbeat.

“Rape is about power you idiot,” Jessica snarls. “It has nothing to do with sex.”

Crinkling of leather. Karen grabs Jessica’s arm? “Maybe you’ll find this easier to believe.” Another slam against the desk. Less violent. “There were ten extra DVDs found. This screenshot was taken from one that shows your husband raping a woman. This time we get a clear shot of his face.”

“Oh God.” The woman’s voice shakes. Her heart goes haywire. “There has to be some mistake. This is doctored or something.”

“My police source says otherwise.” An edge of her earlier anger still in Jessica’s voice. “Also said there are plenty more where that came from, and they haven’t even finished processing most of the videos yet.”

“The police have witnesses that place your husband with the other suspects. Suspects which have been linked to several rapes including Mr Murdock. Four witnesses were there when your husband shot Miss Romanov. This morning ballistics matched the bullet pulled out of Mr Nelson to the gun your husband used to shoot Miss Romanov. A trampled pack of your husband’s cigarettes was found at the scene. These, right?” Karen’s moved on a lot from the scared woman Matt met so long ago.

“I don’t believe you.” The woman’s heart beats truth. Even now she can’t see what’s right in front of her face. “I won’t believe you.”

“That’s fine,” Jessica says. “You don’t have to.”

Slight movement of Karen at Jessica’s side. “What’s important is the police believe he’s guilty of multiple rapes and running a sizable drug dealing ring.”

“Two things the cops really hate.” A savage smile in Jessica’s voice. “Drug dealers and rapists.”

Matt can hear the woman’s hands shake against the desk. “Why did you ask me to come here. What do you want?”

“We want what you want Mrs Rowe,” Karen says simply. “Your husband to stay alive.”

“And to rot in jail.” Creaking of wood. Flesh against wood. Jessica leans back in her chair and puts her shoes on the desk.

“And for him to rot in jail,” Karen amends. “But let’s stick to him staying alive for now. I think that’s where we’ll see eye to eye. You see, the police are looking everywhere for him. When they find him things could get messy. Tempers always get heated when rape is involved. We have contacts in the police force who will help us put him in the system without any bloodshed. But first we need to find him before anyone else does.”

Creaking of the chair as Jessica leans it back and forward. “Unless you want trigger happy boys in blue finding your husband first?”

A long pause. Wet sound of the woman licking her lips. Her heart races. “You’ll keep him alive?”

Some kind of gesture from Jessica. “Scouts honour.”

Sound of hair. The woman shakes her head. “I don’t even know where he is.”

Brush of fabric on wood as Karen leans forward. “But your son does.”

***

The lineup Friday evening is anti-climatic.

He takes his xanax. It hits him hard on an empty stomach. Lucky tags along. He rides out the flashbacks hearing Baseball Bat gives him. Nods to indicate he’s there and gives a number.

Then it’s over.

It’s over. All of them are in jail. The evidence against them is good. It’s over.

The trials against Dirt, Skittles, and Cocaine start next week. Old Spice’s, Bubblegum’s, and Baseball Bat’s will take a little longer to give their defences time to prepare. Baseball Bat still needs to go through Grand Jury. His case should take the longest to get to trial.

With his purpose gone, he feels lost as Marci leads him down the corridor toward Bucky’s and Steve’s heartbeats. But not lost enough not to step away when Bucky tries to put an arm over his shoulders. Deep pressure and contact is what Foggy does. He doesn’t want it from anyone else.

Bucky’s heart speeds up, but his voice stays mostly even. “Want to go home pal? You didn’t sleep at all last night, and don’t think we haven’t noticed you ignoring your food.”

Matt shakes his head. Signs ‘Foggy.’ His hands tremble.

A frown in Steve’s voice. “Are you planning on going back to the tower at all tonight?”

Another shake. Another signing of ‘Foggy.’ This is over. This is done. Now he’s not leaving Foggy’s side until he’s better.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Bucky’s heart beats worried. “You’re not the best sleeper. Not sure how you’ll react trying to sleep in a new place.”

That doesn’t matter. He’s not going to sleep.

***

Matt wakes up sobbing.

“I know,” Claire’s voice says. Hands with her heartbeat rub his arms. “I know, but I’m sure we can find him. I bet I know where to look.”

Tendrils of the dream cling to him. Searching down alleyway after alleyway and not being able to find Foggy anywhere. A couple times he’d sensed him. A whiff of strawberry shampoo. The comforting sound of his voice. But he’d always been walking away from Matt, like he didn’t want to be found.

He’s standing. There are heartbeats around him. From the smell he’s in the hospital, but he doesn’t know where. “Claire.” His voice is rough, like he’s been crying for a long time.

“Thank God.” Claire sags into him a little in relief. “Sleepwalking you is cute, but you’re more difficult to reason with than you usually are, which is saying something.”

Digging into the pocket of Foggy’s hoodie, he finds a tissue and scrubs shakily at his face. Heartbeats around him. Strange air currents around him. It’s a odd feeling waking up in a place he’s never been before. Some kind of group ward maybe?

“Nurse,” an old woman’s voice says. “Is the boy OK?”

“He’s fine.” Claire sounds more sure about it than he feels. “Just a little sleepwalking. Nothing to worry about. He’s awake now, so we’ll be heading back to his room.” One of her hands touches his arm, then trails down to hold his hand. “Let’s go.”

Matt follows numbly.

“It’s a travesty is what it is,” an old woman’s voice says once they’re a distance away. “Leaving a mite like that alone when he’s in hospital. If you wanted to separate me from any of my children when they’re hurt, you’d have to do it with a army and a lot of nerve.”

“Parents these days think it’s everyone else's job to raise their kids,” another woman agrees. “I say if you choose to bring them into this world, you’ve got to look after them.”

How young did he sound that they seem to be treating him like he’s a kid?

Ned’s heartbeat is awake when they get back to the room. Foggy’s heart is still slow in sleep.

Claire leads him to the chair by Foggy’s bed, warning him where it is. Guides him into it. Her hand smooths hair away from his forehead. Gentle touch to his heated skin as she kisses him lightly. “Drink, then eat, then more sleep. How about you use one of the cots this time?”

Matt shakes his head. One of his trembling hands finds Foggy’s. It’s still limp. No change from last time. There wouldn’t be. Not while he’s still on the chemical scent of drugs to keep him asleep. Still, it feels like there should be change. Over twenty-four hours since the cough of the bullet. How much longer until he wakes up? Is he going to wake up?

Slosh of water from Ned. It passes to Claire. Then cool plastic is placed in Matt’s other hand. “Not a negotiation,” Claire says firmly. “Drink.”

Matt drinks slowly while Ned’s footsteps leave the room. His throat feels tight, and his breathing is unsteady, so it takes a while to finish the cup of water. By the time he seems to have drunk enough to make Claire’s breath sound relieved, Ned’s footsteps come back. Smell of the watery chicken soup Matt finds it easy to eat in his hands.

“Son,” Ned says gruffly. “Come sit over on the cot and eat some soup.”

Matt lets go of Foggy’s hand to find the bedside table. Places the empty glass on it. Shakes his head.

“You haven’t eaten since Foggy was shot.” Fabric shuffling as Claire crouches. Her grip is tight as she takes one of his hands in both her own. A hint of desperate in her voice. “Matt, I need you to eat. Foggy would want you to eat.”

Why should Matt eat and enjoy himself when Foggy can’t?

“Matt.” Skin against silk as Ned pats the cot closest to the bed. He sounds old. “Don’t make this situation harder than it already it.”

It’s the weary note in Ned’s voice that finally makes Matt get up off the chair and stumble to the cot. Ned never sounds weary. Other people sound energised or tired throughout the day. Ned’s different. Ned has steady movements, and a gruff even voice that stays consistent no matter what happens. Growing up knowing quite a few people with volatile tempers, Matt’s always found the predictability soothing. It’s wrong to hear Ned sound so beaten down.

Ned pulls the silk sheet up to Matt’s chin. Tucks it around him like - Matt’s not sure. Anna’s tucked him in a few times when he’s ill, or sad, or once memorably when he was drunk. But it’s a noisy affair. Lots of fussing or scolding. This is closer to when Foggy takes care of him. The times when he’s not so nervous he starts making jokes. When Matt’s too sad or ill to communicate, and Foggy’s too tired to try and fill in the gaps. It feels like a promise. The weighted blanket comes next. Then he’s adjusted against the silk pillows, keeping him upright. A warm travel mug placed in his hands. “Did I ever tell you how I met Anna?”

Matt takes a cautious sip at the mug. Shakes his head.

Light thump as Claire settles into a chair across the room. Listening?

“I was speaking at a protest. I took Foggy along.” Scraping sound. Ned pulls a chair to the side of the cot to sit on it. “He was about fourteen or fifteen months old. Bright blond hair. Chubby cheeks. A smile that could blind you. He’d be starting his frog phase around then. Where he tried to hop everywhere and pretend to be a frog. That one lasted a year. Somehow, I don’t know how, I’d risen high on a number of watch lists. A sniper took a shot at me while I was holding my son. Then there was Anna. She took a bullet for us. Brought us to safety. It was a hectic few days to say the least. We even had a car chase. That was my contribution to the excitement. Drink up your soup son.”

Matt drinks, feeling dazed. Ned and Anna seem so normal. It’s not the first meeting he’d imagined.

“It turned out she was hired to kill me a few months before. She delayed because she didn’t want to do it in front of Foggy, and well, I always had Foggy. Then as she watched us, inch by inch she fell in love. But it wasn’t me she fell in love with first. It was Foggy. Even as a baby he was so expressive. So loving. He wanted to be everyone’s friend. She told me that the real reason she couldn’t bring herself to kill me was because she knew I had to be a wonderful person to raise a child so sweet.” Ned’s words choke off. Wet in his voice.

Matt freezes, hands clutched around the travel mug. “Sorry. Should’ve - should’ve kept him safe.”

“Matt.” Movement as Ned shakes his head. “Remember what I said about the tires son? If you put too much pressure in your tires, the car won’t work right. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself. I never blamed Foggy for you getting hurt, so I’m not about to blame you for Foggy getting hurt.”

It doesn’t make sense. “I’m the reason. It’s because of me.”

“The only one at fault is the man who put a bullet in my son.” Ned’s hand clasps his shoulder. “Not you.”

It’s still confusing. Matt tries to work it out. He didn’t know Foggy would get hurt. He thought they were safe after the police confirmed they’d received more evidence, and the press mysteriously received basic information of what that evidence was. So because he didn’t know what would happen, it can’t be his fault. It feels alien for the world to be turned upside down and not to be able to point a blaming finger at himself.

“When you’re driving,” Ned says, most of his usual gruff voice restored. “You can have an idea of where you’re going. Every now and then you can check the rear-view mirror to see where you’ve been. But you have to keep most of your attention on the road right ahead of you. To keep most of your attention on the present. You spend too long worrying about the future, or beating yourself up about the past, you’re going to crash that car. Right now Foggy is alive. You weren’t hurt. I thank God for both those things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers for this chapter =
> 
> Usual scary place that is Matt's mind. Discussion of negative reactions toward stimming and blindness. Intense emotions. Violent happenings to a major character and fallout afterwards. Ignorant opinions of rape (assuming a rapist has to be attracted to males to rape a man). 
> 
> As always let me know if you think anything else should be added to this list.
> 
> My new job is intense but not as scary I was worried it might be. It is set to heat up next week when I start official training. Plus getting there and back is causing all kinds of headaches. Why don't we have teleportation already?
> 
> Sunday is the new best day for me to update, and I think I can commit to updating every two weeks for a while. So look out for the next update on the 23rd of October. Thanks for all the well wishes.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoilery triggers for this chapter.

Matt sets up the figures on the carpet instead of the sand tray.

The sand is soft, but everything is too much right now. He doesn’t want to risk it. The small emaciated demon lies face first on the carpet. A dog with sharp angles, a large demon with curved horns, a bear, a grouchy feeling gardener, a prisoner with a manic grin, and a skeletal man stand around him.

He’s getting better at placing the figures without micro-analysing everything first. He didn’t even know this was the scene he was going to make until his hand reached for the first figure. Today - it’s hard to tell what he’s feeling today. It’s like he’s buried under some mass of emotion. It’s crushing him. It makes everything feel dull and far away.

For a long time he sits on the carpet of the sand tray room, fingers brushing over the figures. Taking the scene in. Menacing figures looming over a weak withered demon. His head rests against his knees, too heavy to hold up.

A sudden stab of emotion hits him through the chest. His foot slams down on the figures, one, two, three times. Until the sole of his foot cries in pain, his lungs pant for air, and his body trembles. Lucky nudges him, having taken back to his duty with relish after being banished from the intensive care unit.

Fiona’s heart-rate barely rises. “Did you mean to hit yourself along with the others?”

***

“I remembered something,” Matt says, voice dull. His head rests on the table, on top of his folded arms. His hoodie is one of Foggy’s old ones, and if he pretends, he can smell his scent on it. “Something Baseball Bat said before he shot Natasha. I don’t know why I didn’t before.”

“Your natural reaction is to dissociate under extreme stress,” Sam says from the other side of the kitchen table. “That can make it difficult to store memories in a way that’s easy to retrieve.”

“Rowe’s lineup must have triggered the memory,” Karen adds. “Can you tell us what it was?”

“He said.” Matt pauses. It’s important to try to remember exact wording. “Something about knowing he couldn’t trust that rich bastard.”

“I was shot on the twenty-ninth of April.” Movement as Natasha steals something from Clint’s plate. “Fletcher wasn’t arrested until the first of May. He could’ve been involved in part of this. More if he’s smart. Money talks, even from behind bars.”

“Hey.” Sharp movement as Clint tries to swipe whatever it is back. From the disappointed huff he’s not successful. “None of the others fits the criteria. I mean, Rowe and Short seem to be the main leaders behind the cocaine ring. They made a tidy sum. But if Rowe is calling someone a rich bastard, then he must mean someone raking in more bucks than he is. And let me tell you, Fletcher’s family is loaded.”

“As much as I’d like to wrap this all up, there are a couple of loose ends I don’t like,” Steve says from the seat to Matt’s left. “Like who’s paying for the lawyers. Fletcher, Rowe, and Short could afford decent lawyers, but Vasquez, Thomas, and Jones are lackeys. Yet according to Foggy and Miss Stahl, their lawyers are almost as expensive as Fletcher’s.”

“All three from the same firm too,” Tony says. “But Fletcher, Rowe, and Short use different firms.”

Wet noise as Bruce dips one of the chopped vegetables into something that smells like cheese. “If I were hiring lawyers for a bunch of criminals and didn’t want anyone to know about it, I wouldn’t hire from the same firm I planned to use.”

“Good point.” Fabric against wood as Natasha folds her arms on the table. “If one of the richer three did hire lawyers for the poorer three, they’d have reason to stay anonymous. The poorer three were the ones caught first.”

“Maybe that’s why they were hired,” Karen says. “To convince them to stay quiet about the others. They stay quiet, they get a decent lawyer all paid for. They did refuse to say anything about the others. Even Jones shut his mouth after he sobered up from the drugs.”

“Fletcher’s the most likely to hire them.” Sound of Bruce drinking. From Tony’s smoothie? “Hiring three expensive lawyers would be a big hit to Rowe and Short’s funds, but Fletcher wouldn’t even feel it.”

“If it’s him, his parents would know about it.” Skin against glass as Tony takes his smoothie back and sips at it. “Not even a rich kid could sneak that much money past mom and dad.”

“The father would do anything if he thought it would help his son.” Natasha sounds confident. “The mother wouldn’t.”

“So maybe that’s our angle.” Ceramic against wood as Steve pushes his plate away. “Natasha and Clint. Talk to the mother. See if her son or husband is more involved than we thought. Karen, you and Jessica go back to Pearson. There’s still something she’s not telling us. She might be more willing to talk now Rowe’s behind bars. We also need to see what Rowe says about this. And maybe take another run at the guys who attacked Matt and Karen. Thor, you’re on Avenger duty. If there’s a minimum assistance call, you take it. Anything more we’ll see who’s available. Everyone else is on caring duty. Make sure no one’s pushing themselves too hard. Take your shift with Foggy. Take care of each other.”

Sharp movement from Clint. “Aye aye Captain.”

Disappointed huff from Tony. “I wanted to say that.”

“Matt?” Bruce asks hesitantly. “Would you like some soup instead?”

Matt doesn’t want anything. He keeps his head resting on his arms. Doesn’t move. Baseball Bat is behind bars. This is supposed to be over.

“Anna could wake up soon,” Steve says softly. “She’ll be happier if you’ve eaten something.”

Ned took the night shift, and Anna took the morning. She’d arrived at the tower just past one PM, less than an hour ago, and went for a nap. Now Candy and Bucky are looking after Foggy, while Ned visits with some of the extended Nelson brood to update them.

Apart from his medications, he hasn’t eaten anything since the soup last night.

“Matt.” Karen’s hand moves as if to touch him, then stops. “Do you need an intervention?”

“I did my therapy,” he says. His voice still sounds toneless. “I need to go back to Foggy.”

“Let’s do the therapy exercise you didn’t manage to finish,” Sam says calmly. “Eat, then get some rest. After that we’ll take you back to Foggy.”

Fiona talked a lot about coping techniques. About breaking things down and concentrating on the present when things get overwhelming. She says right now Matt needs to concentrate on surviving instead of improving. Take things an hour at a time, and if that’s still too much, take things a minute at a time. Every minute he survives is an accomplishment.

Sound of the paper Fiona used to write three things Matt hates most about himself right now. Sam’s voice. “Do you want to do this here, or someplace else?”

Matt shrugs. It doesn’t matter.

A pause, then people begin to move. Clinking of plates as they’re placed in the dishwasher. Footsteps toward the elevator. Everyone leaves but Steve, Karen, and Sam.

“You said you think you’re selfish,” Sam says. “Can you give me an example of when you think you were selfish?”

There’s a lot. So many times. “I wanted Foggy to be my friend.”

An intake of breath from Karen like she’s about to say something. Some kind of movement from Sam and Karen stops.

“I wanted Bucky to be my friend,” Steve says in his soft voice. “And you, and everyone else in the tower. Does that make me selfish?”

Matt raises his head to shake it. “That’s different. I - I make everything bad. Everything breaks. Everyone dies. Everyone leaves.”

“Fiona told you about complex PTSD, right?” Sam asks. “That one of the features is feeling like you’re different to everyone else.”

His fingers dig into his forearms. Below the table Lucky places a chin on his knee. He knows. It’s just difficult to see something he’s accepted as fact for so long as a symptom. “Stick said I was right. That I need to push people away, or I’ll get them killed.”

Sam’s words are slow and careful. “When someone abuses you for a long time as a kid, you have two choices. Either you reject what they say, and reject them, and lose them. Or in order to be able to form some kind of bond, the child has to believe the abusive adult cares about them. The only way to do that is to take on the adult’s beliefs as your own. That they’re abusing you for a reason. That there’s something bad about you to deserve that. Kids instinctively bond to survive. Very few kids are able to choose option number one.”

They don’t understand. “Stick didn’t abuse me. I wasn’t abused.”

“Let’s move on from that for now,” Sam says quickly. There’s a tension in the room like there’s some silent communication going on. “I think you’re a lot more selfless than selfish. You waited with Bucky at his hearing, even though public places were very difficult for you. You put a lot of effort into helping him stay calm and comfortable. That’s not something a selfish person does.”

Matt shakes his head. Stick shouts in his head, telling him how lazy and undisciplined he is. How self indulgent he is. Soft. Weak. Pathetic.

“Hey.” Teasing note in Steve’s voice. “This is like a good person talk. What are the rules?”

“You tell me reasons why you think I’m good,” Matt repeats the words Bucky said obediently. “My job is to shut my trap and listen.”

“Good job.” Sound of paper crinkling as Steve takes it from Sam. “You think you’re useless. Can you give me a reason?”

“I tried to find Baseball Bat.” Matt picks at the sleeves of his hoodie. Foggy hates it when he does that, because Foggy’s the one who has to persuade him that x piece of clothing is unwearable, and yes Matt does really need to throw it out. Maybe if he ruins all his clothing Foggy will get better faster. “I dissociated and got lost. I can’t even walk down a street without screwing something up.”

“All or nothing thinking.” Shifting as Sam leans against the table. “You wanted to do it perfectly, but there are good reasons why you couldn’t. You’re not familiar with that part of the City, right? You’re at the disadvantage of not being able to read signs. And first and foremost, you’re human man. You have limitations just like everyone else. That’s fine. You don’t have to be perfect.”

Stick’s voice disagrees very strongly about that one.

“I don’t think you’re useless Matt,” Steve says firmly. “You’re the one who found Rowe the first time. Without that we wouldn’t know who he was. We wouldn’t be able to find him again. And all of us would still be in danger. There are things you still have problems with. But you help us out in a lot of ways too. Like when you help Bucky calm down. Or when you spend time with Clint. He gets a lot out of playing with you that he can’t get from the rest of us.”

“Last one.” Crinkling of paper as Sam takes back the list. “You think you’re emotional. What makes you feel that’s a bad thing?”

Heat rises to his face. “I keep - I keep crying.”

“You’ve gone through a lot of emotional things,” Karen says. “All of that needs to come out somehow. I think I’ve cried every night since this whole thing started.”

Matt flinches. He hates the idea of Karen crying.

“If I may interject,” Jarvis says from the ceiling. “There’s a theory put forward by a Professor William Frey that suggests chemicals that build up during emotional stress are removed in tears when someone cries. Since the chemical composition from emotional tears differs from non emotional tears this hypothesis does seem likely. Another theory backed up by studies suggests that crying is an attachment behaviour designed to elicit help from others. Many studies have shown that emotional crying results in increased mood and decreased stress. It’s also a common symptom in post traumatic stress disorder and depression.”

“See Matt,” Steve says softly. “Crying isn’t a bad thing. I wish I could cry. The few times I’ve managed it, I’ve felt a lot better afterwards, but it doesn’t come easy for me. We all have different outlets. For me it’s my fists, art, or talking. Bucky, he can be a bawler at times. And Sam wells up at just about every sad movie.”

“Some of the happy ones too,” Sam says, not sounding self-conscious about it.

“I watched Marley and Me with Clint,” Karen stage whispers. “I almost drowned.”

“If you need to cry, then cry.” Movement as Sam shrugs. “We’ve all seen our share of tears. No one is going to judge you for that.”

It’s very different to the things he’s heard before. His Dad telling him not to cry. Kids teasing him. The nuns and his teachers, always so disgusted and annoyed. They’d tell him sometimes how disgusting he looked when he cried. Perhaps to try and persuade him to stop, like he wouldn’t stop if he could. Then there was Stick. A day when Stick only mocked him about his tears was a good day. “Maybe I should. I could - I could try harder. Do better.”

“To do what Matt?” Steve asks softly.

“To be better.” It was hard before, but things are different now. And Foggy needs him. He needs to be someone who deserves to keep Foggy. “To get better.”

“Matt, I need you to listen to me closely.” Fabric against wood as Sam leans forward on the table. “You are trying the best you can, and that is enough.”

***

The world is gone, ended, blown up. Everything is horrible. Anything good is rotted and gone.

Matt feels this acutely as he paces the communal lounge. It stabs at his chest. A physical pain that makes it impossible to breathe. He can’t find it. He needs to find it.

Whoosh of elevator doors opening. Bucky’s uneven footsteps step off. Stop suddenly. “What’s going on?”

Pepper’s voice comes calm and soothing from one of the armchairs. “We’re looking for one of his dinosaurs.”

“Ducky.” Fabric shifting as Karen looks through his satchel. The contents are still over the floor from where he tipped them out to look. “We can’t find it anywhere. It’s not in either of his bags. Not in the coffee table. Not in any of his pockets.”

“Try taking a deep breath Matt,” Sam says from the end of the coffee table. “Lucky has your xanax. You haven’t taken todays dose yet. The intervention sheet is on the coffee table if you need it. The computer and PECS book are right behind it.”

Matt shakes his head. His chest hurts. “Need to find her.”

“OK pal.” Bucky’s rough smooth voice is even more soothing than Pepper’s. His uneven footsteps round the large couch. “We’re looking. Why do we need to find her?”

“She’s Foggy’s favourite.” He crouches by the coffee table, shakily pushing Lucky’s nudges away so he can open the middle drawer again. His fingers move over the dinosaurs, but Ducky’s not there. He needs her.

“He wants to put her on Foggy’s beside table.” From the tension in Sam’s body it feels like there’s more communication going on between him, Bucky, Karen, and Pepper than Matt can sense. “So he can see her when he wakes up.”

“That gives us some time.” Fabric against leather as Bucky perches on the large couch. “Doctors don’t think he’ll be waking up for another couple days at least. He’s still hurt real bad Matt.”

Ducky isn’t anywhere. “I need her. I need her for Foggy.”

“When was the last time you had her?” Pepper sounds so reasonable, like the world isn’t all crashed and broken.

With court ending, and everything else that’s happened, it takes a long time to remember. When he does, cold fear settles in his stomach. “Clint gave her to me. The day with Old Spice. At Rikers.”

“I don’t remember seeing her afterwards.” Worry in Bucky’s voice. “Wasn’t in his clothes. I’ll text Clint and Nat to see if they know anything.”

Matt lets Lucky lick his face. “What if Old Spice has her?”

Sam’s heart stays calm, same as his voice. “If we left her at the prison she might’ve been turned in. We can check.”

Fabric shifting as Karen sits next to him on the carpet. “You and Foggy bought her at the museum, right? Why don’t we buy a new one for Foggy. It’ll feel exactly the same.”

It won’t. There are wear marks on Ducky’s sides where Matt turned her over and over in his hands. One of the toes is chipped from where Foggy likes to walk her across objects, or across Matt, impersonating Ducky’s ‘yep, yep, yep,’ to cheer him up. “It needs to be that one. Me and Foggy bought her together.”

“Matt.” Fabric against wood as Sam shifts forward on the coffee table. “Maybe we can give Foggy something else until we can find Ducky?”

Matt huffs with frustration. His fingers tap against the side of the coffee table. “Ducky’s Foggy’s favourite. He dragged me to the museum when I was sad. He came up with really bad jokes for every exhibit. We bought Ducky. We went to the park. We got ice cream. We climbed a tree. Everything was horrible, and Foggy made it all better. If I get him Ducky, maybe…”

“Yeah Matt?” Bucky prompts softly.

The words feel like they rip open his chest. “Maybe he’ll get better.”

“Ducky’s not going to affect whether Foggy gets better or not,” Sam says slowly. “But that sounds like a nice memory. Why don’t you tell Foggy about it when you see him? He wouldn’t be able to see Ducky until he woke up anyway, but he might be able to hear you.”

Matt nods, wrapping his arms around his chest.

“Do you need-” Karen starts. Stops. “Can I hug you Matt?”

Matt shakes his head, angling his head away from Lucky’s insistent tongue. “Foggy hugs me.”

Disappointed noise from Karen.

Silence. More non verbal communication. Bucky breaks it by sighing. “Come on pal. Grab your stuff, then you can go see Foggy.”

***

“Are they going to die?” Matt asks for the fifth time.

Creak as Steve sits on the cot next to him. It’s evening. Anna has gone to heat up the supper she’d brought along in multiple Tupperware containers. Almost two days since Foggy was shot. “Thor’s taken them to the vets. We caught the infection early because of you. They have a good chance of getting better.”

They’d been on their way out when Sam asked if he wanted to see the kittens since he hadn’t in a while. A sickly smell. He doesn’t want the kittens to die.

“But they could die,” Matt presses. They could be here one day and gone the next. It terrifies him.

“Matt, can I put my arm around you?” Steve asks gently. “You’re shaking.”

His head and chest hurt too. He shakes his head, clutching his hands together on his lap. Across the room Foggy’s heart monitor beeps. Foggy gives him deep pressure and hugs. He doesn’t want anyone else to do it.

“I don’t think the kittens will die, but they might.”

He remembers them cold in the box he found them in. Remembers how surprisingly strong they were when he fed them for the first time. The little girl who always wanted to explore despite being so little. The boys who were more content to snuggle into the nearest warm body and go to sleep. “I don’t want them to die.”

“I know.” Steve’s words are slow and careful. “I don’t want them to die either.”

A sudden even worse thought hits him. “What if two of them die, and one doesn’t?”

Slight rise in Steve’s heartbeat. “I’d be grateful for every one that survived. Wouldn’t you?”

He’s not sure. “They’d be all alone.”

“No they wouldn’t,” Steve reminds him softly. “They’d have us.”

It’s a lot to consider. For some reason the strange mess of emotions weighing him down swells, crushing him even more. He rubs his chest.

“Please take your xanax?” Plastic sound of the pill box in Steve’s hand. “I think it’ll help you think clearer.”

Matt blinks, then holds his hand out for the pill.

***

The xanax does help him think clearer. Which is why he ends up sneaking out of the bathroom window that night.

He sighs once he hits the ground, slipping his hands into the pockets of Foggy’s hoodie. “How did you know?”

A grin in Clint’s voice. “Steve said you were trying to act fine when you’re not. That usually means you’re due for an explosion, or you’re planning something. So what are we planning?”

It’s strange to hear the enthusiasm in Clint’s voice. No one’s ever been enthusiastic about his activities as Daredevil before. “You’re not going to stop me?”

“Nah bro.” Rapid movement as Clint shakes his head. “Why would I do that? Just - uh - is any of this gonna be illegal? ‘Cause that might not be such a hot idea when you just got acquitted. I mean, Steve’s got some ideas to help you not get in so much trouble if you want to go back to the punching thing. But that’s probably a good thing to square away before you go on the whole punching thing.”

“No punching.” Less than a week ago someone shouted at him and he wet himself. Confrontation isn’t something he’s eager to go searching for. Foggy’s shooter is behind bars. He’s just tying up loose ends. “Nothing illegal.”

“Right.” Clint doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, I’m tagging along with you anyway. If there’s going to be any punching let me do it. Avengers get a pass on that kind of thing most of the time.”

***

There’s something about Foggy’s shooting that gnaws at him. It’s hard to make his mind dip back to Foggy’s voice, angry, cough of gunshot, blood, blood, blood. He does it anyway.

He thinks about it as he sits by the hedge next to Clint, ears locked on Bubblegum’s mom and dad’s house. He’d prefer a rooftop. He’s sure Clint would too, but these houses and gardens are huge. This is the closest space to the house without trespassing.

Their voices he could hear from further away, but not the quieter sounds. He doesn’t want to miss anything that could help tie them to the attack on Foggy.

“When you said nothing illegal, I didn’t know you meant boring,” Clint whispers.

Matt pats him on the shoulder, then digs through his satchel to hand him Petrie. Skin against plastic as Clint fiddles with it.

“If Nelson dies do you think it will help my son’s case?” A male voice asks. Mr Fletcher.

Matt’s hands curl into fists. Rocking just a little, he works them loose so he can type the words on the small computer to show Clint.

No movement near him. Movement across the room. The wife. He’s talking on the phone.

“I know it’s macabre, but it’s not like I’m wishing it to happen. This could help, right? If everyone knows what a bloodthirsty killer Lawrence Rowe is, then they’ll know my son had no choice but to do what he said.”

Clint mutters “asshole” under his breath once Matt’s done typing. The typing is more for Clint’s benefit than Matt’s. He says his hearing loss is pretty bad. His aids help him hear most things out of one of his ears, but it’s not perfect. Without light to lip read he makes mistakes. This is easier.

“I know Nelson’s statement hurt us, but we can turn this around. We’re willing to do interviews. Anything it takes.” Mr Fketcher’s heart-rate increases, distance making it faint. “Those videos will show my son was threatened. I guarantee it.”

Buzzing from Clint’s pocket. Fabric shifting as he takes it out. “Man, Tony’s using the Avenger transmission. Steve’s going to be pissed. We’re only supposed to use that for missions. Which, yeah, I guess this sort of qualifies.” Click as Clint does something to his hearing aid. “Why aren’t you using my normal line?”

Tony snorts through the ear piece. “Because knowing you, you haven’t turned your ring tone off. I’m not about to blow your cover with polka music.” Light buzz from the phone. Probably not enough for anyone but Matt to hear. The words appearing on the phone?

“Oh. Good thinking.” The hedge crackles as Clint shifts against it. “Calm down your worrying. We’re still at the Fletcher place. Nothing too suspicious so far.”

“You coming back anytime soon?”

“When they go to sleep I guess.” Movement as Clint shrugs. “Not like there’s anything worth hanging around for after that. But hey, maybe they’ll do some deep pillow talk and we’ll get more than the whole load of nothing we’ve had so far.”

“Whatever,” Tony’s voice says. “Just tell the pup to watch himself. Pepper says if he gets in any trouble with the law right after the acquittal the media could go crazy, and things could get bad.”

“Got it. We’ll contact Jarvis when we head back.” Click of the hearing aid again. “He’ll deny it, but Tony can be a real mother hen sometimes.”

“Oh don’t look at me like that.” Mr Fletcher sounds angry. “If you were a mother to him, none of this would’ve happened.”

Anger in the wife’s voice too. “Maybe I just saw what you didn’t. I warned you what he was becoming. Boys will be boys. Let him blow off a little steam. That’s what you said.”

The anger in their voices triggers something. The memory of Foggy’s voice, even more angry before the cough of the bullet. Drawing his legs up to his chest, he types. ‘Foggy was angry at Baseball Bat before he was shot. Why was he only angry, not scared?’

“Love can make people forget to be scared.” Clint shifts by his side so his arm touches Matt’s. “Anyone can see that Foggy loves you a lot.”

Foggy loves Matt with all his heart. His fact cards say so. But his fact cards also say that Foggy will never ever leave Matt, and he’s heard the doctors saying that might happen if the antibiotics don’t make the infection around his intestines go away.

“What are you doing?” Mrs Fletcher’s voice.

Creak of the patio door as Mr Fletcher opens it. “I need some air.”

“Of course, just walk away.” Mrs Fletcher’s heels follow her husband’s footsteps into the garden. “Like you always do.”

They’re close enough that Matt can hear their heartbeats clearly. He has to use different cues to tell which one is which. It takes a while to memorise a heartbeat pattern. That lights up another memory that sends his fingers moving over the keys of the small computer. ‘I know Baseball Bat’s heartbeat. So if he’s the shooter, why didn’t I recognise him?’

Clint’s saved from replying when Mrs Fletcher’s footsteps move closer toward them. Soft sound as her heels sink into the grass. “There. Do you see that?”

Matt freezes. Can she see them? Tenses muscles as Clint freezes beside him.

“What is it?” Mr Fletcher’s footsteps move toward his wife.

“There’s someone there. Quick, call the police.”

Grabbing Clint’s arm, Matt keeps them low to the ground and close to the hedge. Quiet until they’re far from the house and safe on a road. They walk quick until the rich neighbourhood is behind them. Police response times are much quicker here than they are in the poorer neighbourhoods.

“If she saw us,” Clint says finally. “She’s either got hearing as good as yours, or sight as good as mine.”

Matt nods. It’s yet another odd thing to add to this situation.

***

Sunday morning Matt walks instead of jogs.

It was a bad night. They got back to the hospital fine, and Steve and Anna weren’t mad. But Steve asked again if Matt wanted deep pressure, and only Foggy’s supposed to do that. Anna said she wants to cut his hair, and Foggy’s going to do that when he gets better. Steve mentioned that sometimes Foggy reads Matt a funny bedtime story to help him relax enough to sleep, and Matt had to shut himself in the bathroom when Anna offered to do that too.

He wants Foggy to read him a story. No one else.

Bucky slows down to walk beside him. “Hey pal, can you tell me what number you’re on?”

The numbers are more difficult lately. Everything’s such a huge swirl of emotions that he’s honestly not sure what he’s feeling most of the time. He holds up three fingers. Maybe about three?

Sudden noise that captures his ears. Frightened sounds. Someone shouting slurred words. “Don’t move or I’ll blow you up!”

Buzzing sounds from Bucky’s phone and the computer in Matt’s backpack. Bucky answers his first. Steve’s voice. “We’ve got a call out. A guy trying to hold up a pizza joint two blocks east.”

“A pizza joint?” Bucky asks, surprise in his voice. “What, he have a craving so strong, carb coma sounded worth going to jail for?”

“There are hostages Buck. He has a bomb strapped to his chest.” Steve sounds like he’s running. “We’ll call you when it’s over.”

Click of Bucky hanging up.

Matt shifts his feet hesitantly, then heads in the direction of the noise.

Bucky sighs. “Pal.”

Matt doesn’t stop. His hands clutch his t-shirt nervously. “I’ll be good,” he offers Bucky, dragging up what he hopes is a reassuring look. “Maybe I can hear something that might help?”

Growl of frustration before Bucky’s uneven footsteps jog after him. “Let’s do this. Getting left behind was starting to grate on my nerves anyway.”

***

The man is high on something.

Matt can tell that from his slurred voice, the fact that he keeps repeating himself, his wobbling footsteps and “I don’t smell a bomb.”

Bucky crouches beside him in the alley outside the pizza joint. “You sure? Witnesses said they saw one.”

“There’s something shifting under his jacket.” Matt tilts his head. “Plastic. Lots, moving against the fabric. But explosives smell really strong. If they were there I should be able to smell them through the vent. Unless there’s some different type of explosive I wouldn’t be able to tell apart from the pizza smell.”

“That’s a neat trick.” Sound of the cop near them chewing gum.

Steve and Sam are on the roof of the building debating tactics, and waiting to hear what Matt has to say. Only two cops are here so far. They must’ve been in the area because they arrived before Matt and Bucky did. They’re not doing a good job of keeping the area clear. Gossip has spread around the block like wildfire. There’s a sizable crowd of people across the street from the building for whom the news ‘guy with bomb vest’ means ‘let’s see if we can get a good look at him before he blows up.’

“No smell of gunpowder.” Matt offers, ears focused on the man’s pacing footsteps inside the building. “So no gun. Only a little metal against fabric sound. Keys? So probably no knife unless it’s a switch blade, and switch blades tend to rattle, so that’s unlikely. Some of the plastic sound could be a weapon, or it could just be a dummy bomb. I can’t always sense plastic tasers unless they’ve been used recently. Oh, and no pepper spray. That I’d be able to smell.”

The cop’s heart does a jump in surprise. “So you’re saying the guy in there is playing some kind of prank?”

Matt shrugs, uncomfortable with the attention. “Smell of cocaine. Unless someone else in there is carrying or using, that’s what he’s high on.” He hates the smell.

“You hear that Stevie?” Bucky says into the electronic humming by his ear. A phone. “Looks like a dummy bomb. Go easy just in case.”

Things don’t last long after that point. Matt listens to Sam’s footsteps entering through a window. Steve entering by the back. Steve’s voice distracting the man while Sam tackles him from behind. Panicked cries from the hostages, and sighs of relief when nothing explodes. Matt narrates the whole thing for Bucky, and the man sighs relief too once it’s all over.

A voice from the crowd snags his attention. Familiar. Wright. “Hey Daredevil. Matthew Murdock.”

Blinking, Matt rounds the edge of the building to get a better angle on the crowd. Lots of people. He tries to scan for Wright’s heartbeat, but that’s harder in a crowd. Harder still when he hasn’t memorised Wright’s heartbeat. Behind him Bucky talks to Steve through the phone.

“Daredevil, it was me.” There. A voice, a little to the side of the crowd. Quiet enough for no one but Matt to hear. “Did you even fucking know that? I put the bullet in your fat lawyer friend. I was so disappointed when I heard he didn’t die. Still there’s time for that, right? Maybe I’ll swing by the hospital after this. They’re keeping him in the Presbyterian hospital, aren’t they?”

Matt finds his heartbeat. It’s a little fast. Nerves? But it’s steady. Wright means every word. He shot Foggy.

“Don’t worry,” Wright continues. “Next time I’ll put three bullets in his fat gut, and another between his eyes. Then maybe I’ll go after everyone else. That blond lawyer. Marci Stahl. And that blond wisp of a thing you were seen with. Your secretary, right?”

Somehow Matt’s across the road before he registers his feet moving. His heart pounds. Anger thumps its way through his body consuming him. One smooth movement and there’s choke of surprised breath as Wright is knocked to the ground. One punch, two. The devil comes out.

Blood mixed with nicotine gum. Fast heartbeat from Wright, but no scent of fear. Wright’s saying something. Yelling. “Help! Help me!” He doesn’t sound scared.

Hand with Bucky’s heartbeat pulling him away. “Jesus.” Bucky sounds scared.

Wright coughs, the sound wet with blood. “He just attacked me for no reason. He’s an animal.”

Another hand pulling at him. This one he doesn’t recognise.

“No.” Bucky’s arms fold around him, like they can hide him. “You can’t take him. Let me just talk to him. He’ll have a good reason.”

“He ran across the street and started hitting someone without provocation.” No emotion in the man’s voice. Smell of metal. Gunpowder. The other cop? “I’m taking him in.”

“Did you see that?” Voices around him whisper. “Crazy.” “I knew it.” “He bit off a boy’s thumb you know.”

“You can’t.” Bucky’s arms don’t let go.

“If you stop me I’ll arrest you too for obstructing justice.”

Steve’s voice. Sounds out of breath. “Buck. Come on.” Hands with Steve’s heartbeat pry Bucky away.

Sound of hair moving. Bucky shakes his head. Wet in his voice as the cop starts reading Matt his rights. “Steve, they can’t. He doesn’t even know what’s happening.”

The cop wrenches Matt’s arms behind his back. Sharp metal crushes his wrists. Handcuffs. His shoulders try to dislocate as he’s pulled to his feet. A voice in his head reminds him he’s not supposed to fight back. It sounds like Foggy.

Steve’s hands on his shoulders. “You’re going to be fine Matt. We’ll fix this. We’ll bring you back home.”

Matt’s tugged roughly away before Steve finishes the words.

***

Marci, Steve, Bucky, Sam, Tony, and Pepper have been arguing at the front desk of the station for an hour. Matt can hear them. But when the door to the interview room is opened, it’s not a cop, a detective, or Marci who steps through. It’s a woman who smells like a curious mix of expensive perfume and hubba bubba bubblegum.

“Hello Mr Murdock.” A voice he knows. Mrs Fletcher.

It doesn’t make sense. Who let her in here? How is she involved in this? Why?

Light sound of fabric against metal as she sits on the chair. Paper sliding over metal. A notepad pushed towards him. Rolling sound of a pencil too. The chains around his wrists clink as he reaches out to stop it. “I’ll keep things simple, because we’ve tried to be subtle and it hasn’t worked. You won’t say a word about what Wright told you. You can stay quiet about the whole thing if you like. You’ll be charged with assault. You’ll stay in jail until the trials against the men who attacked you are over. It’s unlikely to make a difference, but they’re willing to grab hold of any advantage they can get. After they’re over the charges against you will be dropped.”

Reaching for the notepad, he prints a word. ‘Why?’ It doesn’t make sense. Getting Wright to provoke him. Keeping him in jail. What’s the point?

A few seconds silence. Deciphering the word? “Trials like this are won in the press. You attacked them. You being painted as an unstable violent man will remind the public of that.”

He forces himself to take a deep breath. It’s more than a long shot. It’s impossible. ‘They have other videos.’ He’s not the only charge being brought against them anymore.

“Which will make things difficult for the others. But my son,” she says the word like it’s a swear. “They have the assaults against you. The assault against the girl you saved. And he’s on two other videos. He thinks the lawyer can use this to play up the ‘he was threatened angle, since there are so many other videos before my son was brought in.”

Matt’s hand shakes. It makes the chains quiver. ‘He wasn’t.’

“I know.” A firmness to her voice. “I always knew what he was. Right from the start. Just like his real father. I told him about him. What he did to me, so he wouldn’t follow in his footsteps. He still did. My son was rotten long before the first of those videos. There’s something evil in him.”

A shiver travels through him. Something evil in him. The same words his Grandma used. He shakes off the feeling. Now’s not the time. ‘I won’t.’ He feels carefully and underlines the words twice.

“Then Wright will go back to your friend with a gun. Or maybe it will be someone else who goes, or someone else who’s shot.” No emotion in her words. “The man behind this has a great many people in a great many places. Surely you’ve noticed that by now?”

Wright. The guard. Pearson. The men from Baseball Bat’s cocaine organisation. Probably much more. Her heart stays steady. No lie. He’s supposed to communicate. He’s supposed to let people help him. But he doesn’t want anyone getting hurt.

Foggy was hurt. Natasha was hurt. Both of them nearly died. They would’ve died if the Avengers weren’t so efficient at stabilising them and getting them the best medical care as quickly as possible. Foggy’s still really hurt. If someone hurts him again he might leave forever.

‘Why?’ He tries to sign, tugging against the cuffs, before scrawling it on the paper. Why is she doing this?

“We all have to make choices to survive. Or to keep the ones we love.” Movement as she shakes her head. “If it was my choice, my son would’ve gone to jail the first time the school approached us with concerns about Justin’s behaviour with his female classmates. Instead my husband made a donation and the problem went away. The man's deluded, but for some reason he loves my son.”

Foggy would hate this. It was so difficult letting people help him. He's still learning how to do that. Now he has to shut them all out again?

More secrets. Foggy hates it when he keeps secrets.

"Well Mr Murdock?" shifting of one of her arms. Checking the time? "What's your answer?"

Foggy will hate this, but at least he'll be alive. Matt nods.

Shifting of fabric as Mrs Fletcher stands up. "You've made the right decision. This is a good deal. You'll be back out within a few months."

If Wright keeps up his end of the deal.

Mrs Fletcher's clicking heels stop at the door. Hesitation creeps into her voice. The first emotion he's heard from her. "You really did make the right decision you know. I know this is hard, but it's best to go along with it. The man behind all this always gets what he wants."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers for this chapter =
> 
> Usual scary place that is Matt's mind. Self hate. Low self esteem. Allusions to Matt being an abused child who doesn't see it as abuse (Stick) and explanations for why that might be the case. Mentions of sick kittens and discussion of the possibility of them dying. 
> 
> Terrible people saying horrible things. Mention of 'boys will be boys' mindset. Person high on drugs threatens to blow up building. Threats of violence. Actual violence. Strong emotions. 
> 
> As always, if you think any specific triggers for this chapter should be added to this list, tell me in a comment. 
> 
> Expect the next chapter on Sunday the 6th November.


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for (possible spoilery) trigger warnings about this chapter. Something big happens, so if you're in any way worried, I suggest you check them out.

Digging the heels of his hands into his ears, Matt rocks.

His cell is small. More enclosed than the one he spent last night in before being arraigned and sent to Rikers. Walls that smell like damp around him. Metal door that tinges the air with rust. Plastic smell of plexiglass over the window, and in the middle of the door. A window for people to watch him through.

They'd tried to get him to talk, but he'd refused. Bucky and Steve's pleading voices were worse than the detective's repeated questions. There was some talk about a mental health evaluation and a possibility of being sent to a psychiatric hospital, but he'd ended up here instead.

Matt hums, trying to get the rough voices, digging handcuffs, and 'take off your clothes and place them in this bag' out of his head.

The strip search was visual. No touching. The correction officer conducting the search sounded bored. But he hasn't stopped shaking, even with the xanax Brett snuck him before he was transferred.

His new clothes are too scratchy. There's the smell of blood under bleach around him. Urine and feces from the toilet. The sheets on his bed prickle like knives. The mattress is lumpy and wrong. The prisoners in the cells around him won't stop shouting.

He hums, rocks, sometimes he bites. No one rushes in to stop him. Not even when he hits his head to try and get rid of the memory of eyes watching while he's undressed. It takes a long time to calm down.

***

"They talk about me, on the radio," Matt offers. An attempt at conversation is the least he can do. Father Lantom came out all this way to see him. Apparently he volunteers here sometimes, but he must've had to pull some major favours to enter the protective custody units in the North Infirmary Command building.

"I didn't hear a radio when I came in." Father Lantom shifts on the end of the bed. The place the COs told him not to sit, since Matt is sitting there up by the pillow, hands cuffed behind his back. "I've come across some uncomfortable beds before, but this one is by far the worst."

"The ones in mine and Foggy's dorm room were worse than this." It's several hours since he's been processed, and he's feeling shaky but stable. But he's not sure he can take months of this. The food alone is intolerable. "And the radio is two floors up. Someone switched the station. It's playing 'call me maybe.'"

"There's a catholic parody of that song. It's quite the hit among the younger nuns." Father Lantom's voice turns serious. "Matthew. Why are you here?"

Matt grips the metal frame of the bed the cuffs are attached to. "I hit Wright."

"Why did you hit Wright?" Movement as Father Lantom leans closer to Matt. "From what I've heard he's unpleasant. But why did you choose to hit him in that moment. Why then?"

Matt shuffles until the wall is cool behind his head. Reminds himself not to bang. "Maybe the people on the radio are right. Maybe I'm just crazy."

"People considered crazy usually have a reason for doing what they do. So what's your reason?"

Father Lantom's not going to let this go. Lying puts a bad taste in his mouth. Foggy would hate him lying after all the work he's put into practising honest and open communication. He shakes his head instead. "I'm not allowed to tell."

Father Lantom makes a thoughtful noise. "Would you tell your friend Foggy? The others say you miss him very much. They say you've been pushing them away. That they're afraid that's why you won't tell them."

Matt opens his mouth to deny it, then closes it. He has been pushing them away. And maybe he would tell Foggy. He's not sure. Foggy always manages to make him feel calm and safe. "Is Foggy OK?" Would they even tell him in here if Foggy died?

Movement as Father Lantom nods. "The doctors took him out of the coma today. His condition is still dangerous, but better than it was. Captain America said the moment he opened his eyes, he asked for you."

Matt's heart clenches. "I asked for too much. I was greedy."

"Matthew?"

"It was bad enough when I wanted Foggy to be my friend. Foggy's so good. I didn't deserve him." Matt grits his teeth. "Then Karen came along and I wanted to be her friend too, and Claire, Bucky, Steve, Natasha, Clint, Sam, Tony, Bruce, Lucky, Pepper. I was so so greedy. But I'll take it back if I can keep Foggy. I just want him."

Fast heartbeat, then Father Lantom sighs. "It doesn't work like that Matthew. God isn't going to punish you because you wanted to help more people."

Matt blinks. "I wasn't helping. I don't help people anymore."

"Matthew," Father Lantom says softly. "That's what being a friend is."

***

Protective custody means he's locked in his cell twenty-three hours a day, except when he uses the showers. The other hour is an optional trip to the yard.

He allows himself to be lead there in the early hours of Tuesday morning. You can't call the air outside fresh, but it's a lot better than the stagnant damp air in his cell. It's not like he's got anything else to look forward to. No visitors are allowed to see him until Thursday.

It's only when there's a creak of metal opening, that he realises the structure that sounds like chain metal fence is meant for him. Click of a latch closing behind him. Right, of course, protective custody. His time in the yard is confined to a small metal cage for his safety.

No, he thinks, leaning against the side of it and listening to how easy it would be to force the door open. Several points of weakness he can hear. He's not sure he can survive months of this.

***

He refuses to go out in the yard after that. He doesn't like the sensation of being stared at when someone walks by. A monkey in a cage. It's better than the closed walls, confined air circuits of the cell, but not worth the effort of leaving it.

He refuses food too. It comes into his cell by the rough metal sound of a panel opening in the door, along with his medication. The medication at least is alright, although he does hear some people complain about being given the wrong meds. A vitamin, zoloft, and xanax in the morning. More xanax in the evening. The food is terrible. Processed tasting everything. Chemicals he can't name. And whoever prepares it isn't one for hygiene.

Wednesday morning his oatmeal smells like someone's shaved a lot of soap into it. Enough to make him sick. He doesn't even try touching that one.

He exercises. He lies on the uncomfortable bed. He tries to sleep. He tries to focus his ears on some places and away from others. The radios and televisions that blare around the building are a good place to focus on. Other places like the guy three cells over who masturbates what seems like every two hours aren't good.

The bonus of this whole situation is the danger signals in his brain finally stop blaring Thursday morning, too exhausted to react to the moans or skin against skin. It lets him focus on the radio upstairs which is reminding its viewers that it's the third day of Vasquez, Thomas, and Jones's trials.

Mrs Fletcher said he'd have to be here until all the trials were over. If things take about as long as Dirt, Skittles, and Cocaine, then Bubblegum's trial should start in two weeks time. Baseball Bat was caught the latest, so his should take the longest. Grand jury started yesterday. Then about three weeks after it finishes until trial starts. About five weeks from now until all the trials are finished if he's lucky.

Another television? Radio? It's not always easy to tell the difference. Blares somewhere to his left. His name from a middle aged man's voice. Slight Irish accent.

"Well it's obvious that Murdock is faking. I mean, we've all seen those pictures of him clinging to someone when he's out and about, or in some of those tumblr photos. And selective mutism. That's really laying it on thick. He's just someone who played it up for the cameras to get acquitted, and now that's happened he doesn't want to stop. He likes being the centre of attention. Explain to me how else he's acting so crazy after two months. Attacking a guy in public. That just proves it. Trying to get attention."

"Can I ask, Mark, was it?" Steel in the woman's voice. “What constitutes crazy behaviour?”

“Like, y’know.” The man’s voice does the verbal equivalent of a shrug. “Clinging. Those crazy movements that video on youtube caught him doing. Acting so goddamn fragile. I mean, I’m an understanding guy. I get that he might be a little shook up at first, but it’s been two months. Let it go. Move on. No sense acting like a baby after shit happens to you. Unless, y’know he’s doing it for another reason. Lot of people donated money to help him out. Maybe he wants more of it.”

“Those crazy movements as you call them are stimming. Something large numbers of the population do every day to survive. The same way someone paces when they’re stressed. Or drinks. Or criticises people who show they’re in pain, because the socially accepted response is to bottle all those emotions up, then call the person crazy when they finally explode.” The woman’s voice is clear and passionate. It reminds him of the way Karen sounds when she spots injustice. “I’m sure the listeners out there hear it all the time. Man up. Don’t be a baby. Don’t cry. Men aren’t allowed to be vulnerable. But here’s the thing. Everyone can be vulnerable. Anyone can get hurt.”

“I get that,” the guy says. “But two months? Don’t you think that’s overreacting?”

“I’m sorry.” Fake sweet tone in her words. “Is there a time-line for these things I don’t know about? Maybe you should tell the listeners at Trish Talk to make sure we’re aware of it. What is the allowed recovery time for a severely traumatic event? A day for assault? A week for rape? Oh hey, since you’re such an understanding guy, maybe tack on another week since it was gang rape?”

The man splutters. Matt sits up on his bed, attentive. He’s heard a lot of opinions about his behaviour since he entered this cell. No one’s defended him so vehemently before.

“And I’m sure you’ll do us a favour and give us a list of behaviours you’re allowed to show after being violently assaulted. Forget about whether it works, right Mark? Just care about how it looks to other people. What’s losing your mind against losing a little approval from strangers? Never mind that that attitude is exactly the one that leads to people not talking about their problems, bottling feelings up, refusing therapists, running away from family because society says they need to toughen up and deal with it on their own. Then come the coping methods. Because everyone needs those. Only without guidance those coping methods are going to be alcohol, drugs, violence, self loathing. Though I suppose that’s just fine, right? A lot better than acting a little vulnerable.”

“He’s Daredevil,” Mark barks out. “He took down whole fucking gangs.”

“He is human. Behind the mask they’re all human.” The woman says firmly. “I’m afraid it’s time for the next caller. Thank you for talking with us today Mark. Make sure to ring back when you hash our your rules for trauma survivors.

Loud rap of metal. Three times. It echoes throughout the cell from the door. “Murdock! Visiting time! Get a move on!”

***

Maria Pearson smells like fear.

She sits across from Matt in the small visitors room. Only one table. Being under protective custody due to the notoriety of his case, he’s not allowed any contact with other inmates.

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing she says. Her hands shake against the metal table. “I should’ve told you everything. The man behind this all. He had something to do with putting you in here, right?”

Whoever that is. Matt nods.

“I told him to leave you alone. I told him.” Sound of hair moving as she shakes her head. “But then he’s never listened to me. Runs in the family I guess.”

Matt reaches for the notepad. The chains attaching his wrists to the table clink. A slight hope flares. If he can get her to tell who the guy behind this is, maybe he can use that to shut him down. He prints the words carefully. ‘Tell me.’

“I can’t.” Fabric against metal table as she leans forward, lowering her voice. “He has people everywhere. And he’s getting desperate. I’m afraid of what he’ll do.”

He’s faced this problem before. It hurts to think about. He was a different person then. Confident that if he kept pushing himself he could fix all the broken parts of Hell’s Kitchen. ‘Then tell everyone. Give what proof you have to Jessica Jones at Alias investigations. She’ll do the rest.’ Ripping off the sheet of paper, he gives it to her.

Paper against fabric as she stuffs the note in a pocket. “I’m not a bad person you know. After I left Lawrence I tried to get it together. I got clean. I was going to press charges. Against Lawrence Rowe and his goons. And for what happened before I turned to the drugs. Only he came to me, and I needed the money. I didn’t have a job. I had nothing. He gave me an offer, and I couldn’t refuse it. Then he came to me with another offer. And I wanted out of this whole fucking city. I was planning to buy a place deep in the country. I don’t care where it is, as long as it’s far away from all these stinking people who do stinking things.”

Matt knows how that feels. Sometimes the world felt full of hate and hurt even before all those people watched the video. Now it’s worse. The world is a horrible place where horrible things happen. He writes something on the notepad he thinks she needs to hear. ‘I forgive you.’

“Thanks.” Wet in her voice. “Thanks. And I’m going to make it right. He went too far this time. I’m going to stop it.”

***

“The cocaine addict with a dummy bomb,” Natasha says calmly. “Says he woke up to find the pretend bomb and a disposable cell phone next to him. It rang and the person on the other end paid him to hold up that pizza place. The man on the phone said it was a joke they were playing on someone.”

Matt shifts uncomfortably in his chair, making the chains attached to his cuffs clink. They’re digging. They shouldn’t be digging.

“The thing Jessica found interesting was the timing,” Karen says from the seat beside Natasha, on the opposite end of the table from Matt. “There’s a social media tool called celebrity spotter. Two minutes after you and Bucky were pinged, the guy was sent to the pizza place. Tony’s got it hacked so whenever a location result turns up, at least two more turn up in other parts of the city. A guy was sent to hold up a place near each of those locations too. Each hold up extreme or unusual enough that the Avengers would be automatically contacted to see if they could offer support.”

Flesh against metal as Natasha folds her arms on the table. “Funny how they knew the criteria that would lead to the Avengers being informed.”

That is odd. But a lot of things about this are odd. Matt signs ‘stop.’ They need to stop digging. If Pearson manages to inform the world and give them proof, that’s fine. But if any of them get caught before everyone is informed, then someone is going to get hurt again.

“We’ll stop talking about this if you want us to,” Natasha says. “But we’re not going to stop investigating. We can’t.”

“We’re not going to leave you in here,” Karen says firmly.

He’s not going to die over a little discomfort. He signs ‘I’m fine.’ He can survive in here a while longer.

“You have bruises on your forehead.” A note of something he can’t name in Natasha’s voice. “Bite marks on your hands. I’m guessing your arms too.”

Matt tugs on his chains lightly to distract himself from the feelings churning in his stomach. Visits only last an hour total, including the time with Pearson. This should end soon.

“Matt?” Karen sounds like she’s trying to hide the wet in her voice. “When’s the last time you ate?”

It’s been a while. He eats the bits he can eat, but there’s a lot he can’t. His tastebuds get more sensitive when he’s stressed, and he can taste everything. Sometimes they spit in the food.

“Tell me if you want me to stop talking,” Natasha says. “Things don’t add up. Like Rowe showing up outside Bucky’s hearing to threaten you. Why do that? Why risk making it easier for us to track him down? Then I remembered the words you told us Rowe said the day he shot me. ’I knew I couldn’t trust that rich bastard.’ So maybe it was the rich guy who told him to do that.”

“And how did he know you’d be at that hearing anyway?” Karen continues. “You decided to turn up on that day. You snuck through the back. Everyone knew Bucky was there, but no one knew you were there. Other encounters we can explain. A lot of people saw you and me in Ed’s bakery before we were cornered in that alleyway. But there were no online notifications of your location on the day of the hearing. Just like there were no notifications of our location the day Foggy was shot. No one should’ve known we were in that restaurant.”

Matt blinks at the mention of Foggy. In all the rush of emotion that came with Foggy being shot, he’d forgotten to wonder how anyone knew they were there. No one did, except…

“We checked with Jarvis. On the day of Bucky’s hearing Foggy apologised to Devan, saying they needed to rush in order to support Bucky at his hearing.” Something deadly creeps into Natasha’s tone. “On the day of the party, Foggy mentioned to him we were going to a karaoke restaurant. A brochure was on the side. The one Kate sent so you could decide what to order before you went.”

“The Chief of police recommended him to Tony at a fundraiser they went to. Apparently he’d heard good things about him.” Skin against skin as Karen fiddles with her fingers. “But here’s where it gets really interesting. He’s also Justin Fletcher’s physiotherapist. Has been for most of his basketball career.”

Matt flinches, making the chains shake. Devan mentioned that the cigarettes he smoked that smelt so much like the ones _they_ used were taken off a client by his father, and given to him. They could’ve been the very pack they smoked from that night. Devan was watching him all along. Spying. He was in the tower. The tower is supposed to be safe.

“We know you’re protecting someone. Foggy or the rest of us.” Karen sounds sure. What else is she sure about? How many questions has she been asking? How much notice has she drawn to herself? “Someone threatened us, right? One of Justin Fletcher’s parents? Tony hacked into their finances. Illegal, so we won’t be able to use it as evidence. Money from the father’s account went to the firm Jones, Vasquez, and Thomas’s lawyers came from. He bought their lawyers. Possibly why they stayed so quiet about Fletcher. Lawrence Rowe and Dennis Short run the cocaine ring. They have rather unsavoury acquaintances that could make someone think twice about snitching on them. But Justin Fletcher seems to be new to the group. His money and his basketball career was all he had going for him.”

“The father is involved somehow,” Natasha says. “How deeply, I don’t know. He owns a lot of successful businesses. Makes a good living for himself. A philanthropist. That could give him some interesting connections, and power over people, but his main asset seems to be money. It’s possible he’s the ringleader alongside Rowe, but unlikely. Wright set you up somehow. So he’s involved. So’s Pearson, and the guard. Mr Fletcher has a connection to Devan, but I don’t see a connection to the rest of the players. One thing Mr Fletcher’s telling the truth about, is until recently he wasn’t aware of the type of people his son spent time with.”

That’s something Matt’s confused about too. Mr Fletcher would be the obvious person behind the threats and attack on Foggy. He has money. But he has no links to the police, and police seem to be the common denominator between Pearson, the guard, and Wright. The officers who arrested Matt for Wright’s assault too. That’s likely. It’s a little too convenient that they were there, ready to whisk him off quickly enough that no one saw him until Mrs Fletcher. And who would let her access the interview room apart from someone in the police station?

Baseball Bat is possible. He was Pearson’s ‘boyfriend.’ She works in the same station as Wright. There’s a chance she could’ve found him, and traced the guard through mention of his brother, but since they work in different departments it’s unlikely. It seems like she did the minimum amount she could. Burying paperwork, and maybe hacking into the system to get Wright reassigned. But from her records, she’s competent with computers, not genius. It’s possible but unlikely that she managed to get Wright transferred to Matt’s case.

And why would Baseball Bat frame himself with Foggy’s attempted murder? That doesn’t make any sense.

“Matt?” Karen asks softly. “Is there something about Foggy’s shooting we’re missing? Clint told us you were unsure about a few things. Said they didn’t add up. We took another look at the evidence and you’re right. It’s strange. Too perfect. Ballistics came back to the same gun Rowe used on Natasha. An empty pack of the brand of cigarettes he used was found on the bathroom floor. The window was forced open with the same type of tool he used when breaking into houses as a teenager. Something that’s on his police records.”

Movement of hair. Natasha tilting her head. “Why be so sloppy about hiding your identity, then go to the trouble of hiding your scent with a strong cologne. It doesn’t make sense. Unless it wasn’t Rowe who shot Foggy, and someone else wants us to think it is.”

Matt’s hands turn into fists. His heart hammers against his chest. They’re getting too close. How is he supposed to keep them safe when they don’t stop digging?

“We’re going to find out Matt,” Karen points out. “Foggy moved out of intensive care into primary care today. He’s still hazy, and very high on drugs, but the doctors think he might be able to remember the shooting. Someone else does too, because we’ve caught several cocaine addicts and members of Rowe’s cocaine gang trying to sneak in to finish the job.”

For a long moment Matt forgets how to breathe. That’s not the deal. He’s supposed to stay in here, keep quiet, and everyone is supposed to be safe. A vise clenches tight around his lungs.

“Just breathe Matt.” Natasha breathes slow and calm. “None of them got anywhere near him. None of them will get anywhere near him. All his doctors and nurses are vetted. He has Stark security and at least one Avenger guarding him at all times. When he’s recovered more we’ll transfer him to the tower. He’ll stay safe, and we will find out what he knows. It’s only a matter of time. Whoever’s behind this is getting desperate. Dropping clues everywhere. All these people linked to Rowe are supposed to make us suspect him. But there’s something interesting that doesn’t gel with that theory. They were all given orders through disposable cell phones. All of them were known by the police to be associated with Rowe, whether by being dragged into the station themselves, or their name being mentioned during an interview. We’re looking into it. We’ll find out what’s going on.”

Matt shakes his head. “N-need. You need to - pl-please stop. L-leave it.” If Pearson can expose the man’s identity to everyone this will be over. But digging and asking questions is dangerous. They’re going to get in trouble.

“Murdock,” Natasha says firmly. “You don’t get to play martyr. And you don’t get to punish yourself in here for what happened to Foggy. You can help us or not, but we’re bringing you home.”

***

Saturday Matt gets a present.

Several presents. Softer clothes than the ones given to him by the prison. Shoes that don’t pinch his feet. Socks that while not fluffy are soft. And boxers that aren’t silk, but are as nice to his skin as cotton can get. No hoodie. They aren’t allowed in here. But he gets a tight fitting t-shirt that gives him some deep pressure, and a baggy sweatshirt with a soft comforting lining.

His braille copy of Thurgood Marshall quotes, and a few other braille books. Writing paper. Pencils. Erasers. Envelopes. But the best thing is a combination stereo/cassette player with a few audio book cassettes.

The cassettes use glossy paper so he can’t read them, but the first one he tries turns out to be Harry Potter. The next is Spirit Stallion of the Cimarron. The last is The Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse, the book he’d once told Foggy and Bucky his Dad used to read to him.

With his softer clothes on, and the stereo telling him about a little wooden horse who wanted to make his maker happy, his heart feels too big for his chest. He wishes he had the leather couch, the fleece blanket instead of the scratchy bedsheets, and someone he trusted close enough to feel their heartbeat. For a moment he doesn’t care whether it’s Foggy or someone else from the tower. He just wants someone there.

Shaking his head, he switches to the radio. Maybe there’ll be an update of the trials. Or some kind of mention of the Avengers.

Lying on the too lumpy mattress, he drifts as he listens. He’s been doing a lot of that. He tries to exercise. He doesn’t want to be caught off guard if something bad happens. Something bad always happens. But it’s hard to summon the energy after eating so little for so long.

Six days he’s been in this prison, and he tries to eat. It’s not like he wants to starve himself. It’s just a lot of effort at times. Not eating is more comfortable. No overly processed tastes to navigate. No stumbling across something foul and losing it all down the sink.

“The body of Maria Pearson was found yesterday in the Hudson river.”

Wait. What?

“Investigators say all the signs point to suicide, but are confirming nothing at this stage.”

Matt pushes himself up on his elbows. What? His heart races. She wouldn’t kill herself, would she? Not now. Not without going to Jessica like he told her to.

Did she go to Jessica and then do it? He’s not sure. Here in protective custody getting someone to escort him anywhere takes a long time. A lot of the time they don’t bother. He hasn’t had a single phone call since he got here.

‘What would he do with it?’ They’d asked Marci when she’d called to complain about it. ‘He never talks.’ But Karen said they’re trying to fix that. He should get his phone calls back, and if not, it’s visiting again tomorrow.

She wouldn’t kill herself, right? Not even if she did what she said she was going to do. She had dreams. She said she wanted to move out of the city. Start a new life.

Matt has no dreams except to keep his friends safe. Maybe to try not to wake up crying or screaming that night. But Pearson had dreams. She had hopes. She wouldn’t kill herself. Right?

***

He doesn’t know where they’re taking him.

His hands are cuffed behind his back. Smells and air currents change around him rapidly. He’s not used to the warm breeze that’s settled outside since he’d last been in the yard. It takes a moment to orientate his senses, and the COs don’t give him that.

They push him along quickly. Their hearts beat too fast, like they’re doing something wrong.

Whoever is orchestrating this has a lot of guys in his pocket. Why not correction officers too? The hit on Foggy was meant to kill him. That much is certain from the other attempts on his life. So he’s not afraid to kill people.

Killing Matt would draw a lot of unwanted attention. From all the things he’s heard, half of New York seems to be in uproar at him being locked away. While the other half wants him locked up forever and the key thrown away. Matt dying would get a lot of attention, and a heck of a lot of suspicion.

But this guy is getting desperate. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore.

There’s beeping and buzzing of a gate being opened, then they’re in another part of the prison. One he hasn’t been in before. Close walls. A small yard. Smells like smoke and weed. So probably not closely supervised.

Four heartbeats that he knows. Another he barely notices next to the others.

Shaking his head, he tries to move back, towards the gate that buzzed. Panic shreds his nerves. He wants his cell. His cassette. The shouting inmates who always have a wall between him and them. Not here. He can’t be here.

The two COs each have a grip on one of his arms. They shove him forward. With his wrists tethered behind his back, he barely catches himself in time.

“You have your five minutes as promised,” Fisk’s voice says. Deep. A hint of hesitation that Matt knows is more a tick than any consideration to stop. “We’ll give you your privacy.”

Fisk’s footsteps move away along with the COs. Matt never thought he’d be in a situation where he’d be begging Fisk not to leave him, but if his voice hadn’t disappeared again, he’d be screaming those words. .

Baseball Bat’s footsteps move towards him. Bubblegum’s, Old Spice’s, and Dirt’s behind him. From the sound of his breathing Old Spice is grinning.

Matt’s feet unfreeze. Spinning around, he runs. Whap to his shoulder as he runs into a fence. Sound of the metal vibrating from the force of his hit.

A hand fists in his new clothes. Yanks. Then slams his back into the fence. Hand with Baseball Bat’s heartbeat pinning him to the vibrating metal. Hot breath pens him in. Baseball Bat in front. Old Spice close to his right. Dirt further away to his left.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tenses all his muscles, locking himself in place. Stay still. Stay still. Don’t breathe. Don’t move. His hands shake like leaves behind his back. He tries to tell them to stop.

Sharp pain to the side of his face. His head snaps to the side. Taste of blood in his mouth. Baseball Bat’s voice. Fear in his voice. What? Baseball Bat never sounds scared. He always sounds in control, authoritative, angry. “Would you listen to me you little whore? You need to tell them I didn’t do it. I didn’t shoot that lawyer. I won’t go down for attempted murder when I didn’t even fucking do anything.”

The trembles spread from his hands to the rest of his body. Until there isn’t an inch of him not shivering. Baseball Bat did plenty, even if he didn’t hurt Foggy, but Matt can’t say that.

“I don’t mind if I go down for shooting that lady, though that was her fault for being in my fucking building,” Baseball Bat continues. “I won’t even complain if they decide I raped you. Though you fucking deserved it for attacking us. But I didn’t do anything to that lawyer. I won’t go down for something I didn’t do.”

They smell like blood. All of them but Bubblegum. Why do they smell of blood?

“We only have five minutes,” Old Spice says in that voice that reminds him of crooned words. “I want those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.”

Matt flinches further into the fence. No.

“You really want to try that with him?” Bubblegum asks, disbelief in his voice.

“Why not?” Smug smile in Old Spice’s words. “The slut let Jones fuck his mouth after you left. Took it beautifully. Didn’t bite down once. All you need to do is provide the right incentive.”

Matt jumps as a large hand grips between his legs. It squeezes. Moving. Fondling. No. Please. Screaming builds in his head. Outside he remains silent. Still, apart from the trembling. Please don’t. Please stop!

Old Spice leans close. His breath smells like the hash browns he’d had for breakfast. “I’m going to make you feel so good. Keep going until you cum like the slut you are. You want me to stop, then get on your knees and open that gorgeous mouth of yours.”

Whack of Baseball Bat’s arm against Old Spice’s, knocking it away. It saves Matt from having to decide. “Would you take this seriously for once? Pearson is dead. He fucking killed her. We could be next. We are next unless you really believe Fisk’s bullshit about changing his mind about killing us.”

“He said we could be useful.” Old Spice’s fingers grip Matt’s hair. Pushes down on his head hard enough that his neck screams with pain. “So, if you don’t want to end up like your girlfriend, we need to prove we are useful. Get on your knees slut!”

Tears prick at his eyes. The hands cuffed behind his back grip the fence to keep his feet.

Warm flesh against his stomach as Old Spice’s large hand gropes under his sweatshirt. Matt’s muscles twitch, trying to get away. Then that hand dips under the waistband of his sweatpants.

No! Breath hitching, he lets go of the fence and drops to his knees. There’s a storm in his head. A haze of noise he can’t interpret. Did something like this happen before?

Old Spice laughs. His large hand pats the side of Matt’s head. The bruise on his cheek where Baseball Bat hit him throbs. “See, useful. We have Daredevil on a leash. Fisk wants to keep him out of commission, it’s in his best interests to keep us alive. Perhaps bring him to us every few months for a reminder of why to behave. If we end up locked in here because the slut couldn’t admit he wanted it, then he owes us some conjugal visits.”

“Think with your head instead of your dick for once Short,” Dirt grinds out. “Fisk set us up. He was planning for us to die when he gave us that hit. All except Fletcher.”

“Hey!” Despite Bubblegum’s words, he sounds timid. “It’s not my fault I’m in a different cell block. I feel as badly about Maria dying as you do Lawrence. She was my girlfriend too you know, before you.”

“If you want to call banging her behind a club one time being her boyfriend.” But there’s arousal in Baseball Bat’s voice. More heat gathers lower.

Sound of Bubblegum's feet scuffing. "Didn't know she told you that."

"Oh, she told me all about it. Why do you think I tracked your sorry ass down?" A sigh. "Also told me your mother called in a favour and stopped the investigation before there was one. Don't suppose she has any more miracles like that under her sleeve?" Something evasive in his heart-rate.

"Told you," Bubblegum says bitterly. "She hates me. Wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire."

"Pass along a good word about us anyway." Old Spice's hand stays tangled in his hair. "Give her some incentive to help us stay alive."

Bubblegum snorts. "Best way to do that is for me not to put in a good word. You think Daredevil can help us?"

Matt shivers, the concrete cold under his knees. If he stays really still maybe they'll leave like they did last time. Fighting back only makes things worse. He remembers that.

"He can tell his friends I didn't shoot that lawyer." Baseball Bat kicks him in the side, hard enough that he'd fall without Old Spice tugging him back up to kneeling by his hair. The sharp pain knocks the air out of him. "You'll do that, won't you slut?"

Matt's shoulders stay hunched. Head ducked as far forward as the fingers in his hair let him move. He wants to curl up and disappear.

"Nod," Old Spice orders. "Or I'll put my dick in your ass instead of down your throat."

Matt nods. The panic sharp enough that he's only half aware what he's agreeing to. The movement tugs his hair.

Old Spice laughs. "Look at him, so eager to swallow my cock."

No. That's not what he meant. Breath coming in shallow gasps, he tries to shake his head.

"Now that the prattling is done." The fingers twist in his hair, pulling him higher. Sound of fabric as Old Spice does something to his pants. Skin on skin as the man touches himself. "You are going to open your mouth and keep it open. Do a good job, and maybe I'll give you the toy dinosaur you left when you came to visit me."

He flinches. Toy dinosaur? Ducky?

"See." Laughter in Old Spice's voice. "Told you it was his. I've had it for weeks. You want it back?"

Feeling numb, Matt nods. Ducky is Foggy's favourite. She shouldn't be with Old Spice.

"Then open your fucking mouth. Don't act like you're too good for this. The whole world saw you gagging on Jones's dick."

Nausea builds in the back of his throat. They did? He doesn't remember that.

Sharp slap to the back of his head. Baseball Bat? Scent of arousal all around him. "Open your mouth. Unless you only take it in the ass?"

It's been longer than five minutes. It has to be. What's taking Fisk so long? Unless he's waiting until they're finished? Fear prickles at his spine. What if this doesn’t end until they decide they’re done with him? Last time that took over seven hours.

He’d rather die than go through seven hours of that.

Hands. Old Spice’s? Pry at his mouth. Dig their fingernails into his gums. He keeps his teeth gritted shut. Tries to turn his head away. The hand gripping his hair doesn’t let him.

“That’s it!” Baseball Bat’s hand grips his sweatshirt. Pushes him away from the fence. Another hand grabs the waistband of his sweatpants.

No. His heart leaps into his throat. He can’t do that. He can’t go through that again. Somehow he forces his jaw to unclench. A sob rips his throat raw as he opens his mouth. The shivering wracking his frame increases. Cold numbness settles over him. He’s thankful for it.

The fingers in his hair loosen their grip. “Good slut.”

The tears cutting down his face feel distant. Like this is all some long ago memory instead of something happening now. Maybe it’s a bad dream. He’ll wake up in the tower. Lucky will be there. Jarvis will remind him where he is. Then he can go to rest in the communal lounge. Perhaps he’ll be brave enough to ask Foggy if he can spend the night in his bed. Foggy said he could whenever he wanted.

“Five minutes are up.”

All the muscles around him tense at the new voice. Fisk.

“Two more minutes,” Old Spice huffs. “Bitch wants to give me a goodbye blow job.”

Matt squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want. He doesn’t want!

“Five minutes,” Fisk says deliberately. “Are up. Don’t make me ask tell you again.”

Silence and hammering heartbeats before Old Spice’s fingers untwist from his hair. Sound of fabric as he tucks himself back in. “You want the dinosaur back,” he hisses. “Come find me whore. You can have it for a price.”

The hand grabbing him by the throat takes him by surprise. Baseball Bat. “Tell me you’ll do anything I want. Tell me!”

Anger pours from the man. It short circuits his brain. Fear taking over every atom of Matt’s body, until there’s nothing left. He nods as rapidly as the fingers squeezing his throat let him. Anything. Just please, please let him go.

Sharp pain in his knees as the hand drops him. “See,” Baseball Bat says. “With us around he’s as defenceless as a newborn.” Sharp whap to the side of his head. “If you don’t convince everyone I didn’t shoot the lawyer, I’ll enter your cell while you’re sleeping and fuck you. Understand?!”

Another nod. A million nods if they’ll leave. His nerves stretch so tight he can hear them breaking. Please leave. Please go.

Wet sound. Dirt? Spits somewhere near Matt. Then their footsteps move away.

Fisk waits until the echoing clang of a door seals their heartbeats inside a building across the yard. “I apologise for the…unpleasantness.”

Matt stills. With the other’s heartbeats dwindling on the edge of his range, all that terror transforms into anger. Fisk did this. He’s the one who arranged it all.

Roaring, he springs to his feet, driving a shoulder into Fisk’s stomach, pushing him back. He may not be as strong as he was, but he’s quick. Sharp kick to the man’s knee while he’s reeling from the first blow. He uses the momentum to push himself upwards. Plants his feet on Fisk’s shoulders, and launches himself backwards. Not something he could do before Natasha’s training to improve his speed and gracefulness.

Spinning in the air, he lands neatly on his feet. Low to the ground to compensate for the arms tethered behind his back changing his centre of balance.

Loud crash as Fisk hits the concrete. Skidding from the force Matt put into the hit.

Sound of the correction officer’s footsteps hurrying toward them. Matt turns his face toward them, snarling. He’s not supposed to fight the correction officers. He knows that. But there are tears wet on his face. _They_ had their hands on him, and no one did anything!

Fabric against concrete as Fisk lifts himself up on his elbows. “Leave us.”

The CO’s hearts jump in surprise. “Are you sure?”

“I said leave us,” Fisk growls.

The CO’s footsteps turn around and walk back toward the building at the opposite end of the yard.

More shifting as Fisk sits upright. Scent of blood in the air. Sound of fabric as Fisk wipes wherever he’s bleeding from. “I was planning to kill them. All except Justin Fletcher. He has some wealthy people willing to do whatever they can to keep him alive. I made sure they were placed in the same cell block as someone who’s been causing me difficulty. Told them to take care of him. His men are loyal. They should’ve been taken out as soon as his men realised what they’d done, but they surprised me. Manipulated the men into believing it was someone else who did it. Albert Jones and Adam Thomas were still killed in the fight that followed, but the rest unfortunately survived.” A pause. Smooth movements as Fisk gets to his feet. “Or fortunately.”

Matt straightens to his full height, shivers still wracking his frame. A wave of dizziness washes over him, and he has to lock his knees to remain upright. When he gets back to his cell he’s eating whatever they give him for lunch, even if he throws it up afterwards. He’s much too weak. It’s dangerous.

“If you’d let me build the city how I wanted, this wouldn’t have happened.” There’s no lie in Fisk’s voice. He really believes what he’s saying. “There would be no place for rapists in a city like that. No place for crime. No place for Daredevils.”

Sure. That would be why he teamed up with drug dealers and sex traffickers.

“But I can’t deny they might be useful as a long term investment.” Sound of Fisk walking a step closer. He towers over Matt. “One of these days I’ll want to walk the streets of Hell’s Kitchen again. I won’t want you interfering at my parole hearings, or in other parts of my life. They are an incentive against that. One I hope I never have to use.”

Matt swallows heavily. From the way he treated the COs, Fisk runs this prison. What if Bubblegum, Baseball Bat, Old Spice, and Dirt do get locked away, and Fisk can send them after Matt whenever he wants? How will he ever be free of them if he has to listen for them every day?

He’ll never be safe.

“I think he gets the message,” Fisk says. “Take him back to his cell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warnings for this chapter =
> 
> Graphic sexual assault mentions. Actual sexual assault. Victim coming face to face with rapists. Self harm. Eating disorder issues. Scary place that is Matt's mind. Strong emotions. People who believe male victims of trauma should 'tough it out.' Poor attitudes toward people with disabilities/mental health issues. Possible suicide or murder of minor character. 
> 
> As always, if you think more trigger warnings should be added to this chapter, say so in a comment.
> 
> Wow, this chapter took a long time to edit. Sorry for any mistakes still there. And sorry for not replying to comments yet. I finished my basic training at work, and I've been dropped into not so basic work. It's a lot to get used to. Had my first panic attack at this job last week, which was not so fun, but hey, could be worse. And I'm trying to buy a house to make the commute more doable, and I'm trying to actually do work on my second job. Ugh, a lot. Thank you for all the comments you left. They brighten my day. Next chapter should be up on the 20th November.
> 
> Extra note:
> 
> Sorry for not updating. The flames didn't help, and then work found out I have a disability. My bosses are kind of peeved off even though I've been open about it since interview. It means I might need a very small adjustment to my job role (to something I was assured would be rare or non existent in the job, and isn't). Things could go either way right now, and there's a lot of tension and people talking behind my back. Added to that all the other things going on, and this story taking up serious writing / editing time, and I've fallen behind.
> 
> Hope to get the next chapter up sometime this week. Thanks to those of you who've left nice comments.


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoilery triggers for this chapter.

“We’re going to do something we probably shouldn’t do, because I think you’ll have a tendency to overuse it,” Fiona says. There’s worry in her voice. He’s not sure he’s ever heard worry in her voice before. “I want you to picture a safe, or a box. Something secure. Something that won’t open unless you want it to.”

He’s sitting at the head of his bed. Hands cuffed to the frame. There’s a pillow behind his head, but before there wasn’t. His hair scrapes against the pillow, stiff with blood. He pictures his Dad’s chest. Tracing the wood beneath his fingers. The secret compartment in the bottom he hadn’t found for years after his Dad died.

“OK.” Fiona’s close. Crouching next to the bed. Ready to adjust the pillow if she needs to. Too close. That’s what the guard said when she’d moved to put the pillow there in the first place. She’d replied with something a lot ruder than anything he’s heard from her before. “Now picture the thing that’s bothering you. Give it a smell or a sensation or a sound. Picture just one thing about it. Done that?”

He rocks forward against the cuffs, backward against the pillow. Fits a tense nod in there.

“Good. Keep that picture in your head. You can control it. Freeze it in time. Like pausing a video.”

He freezes the moment when he opened his mouth. The click feeling of loosening his jaw after holding it clenched so long.

“Now make the sensation louder. Stronger. Like you’re turning up the volume on a television remote.”

The click of his jaw opening feels terrible. Like giving up.

Fabric shifting as Fiona leans forward. “Now make it quieter.”

It’s hard to dial down the remembered sensation, but somehow he manages it.

“Zoom in,” Fiona says. “As if you’re analysing it closely.”

Matt breaks it down. The click of his jaw. The muscles loosening. Pressure disappearing from his teeth. Sore muscles. The vulnerable feeling of opening his mouth. Embarrassment and fear at the knowledge that they were watching him, thinking about what they were going to do next. Helplessness at knowing he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

“Now,” Fiona says. “Zoom out. View it from far away.”

He steps backwards in his mind. Imagines he’s viewing the sensation from somewhere distant. That it’s not a part of him. Relief floods through him. It can’t hurt him if it’s far away.

“You have full control over the picture. Pick it up. Make it small and distant. Put it in the safe. Lock it in there, and it won’t come out without your permission. If you have any other bad feelings or flashbacks you can’t handle, I want you to do the same to them. Freeze them. Control them. Make them small and distant, and lock them in your safe.”

In his mind, he places the sensation in his Dad’s chest. At the bottom, in the secret compartment. Places the panel over it. Shuts the chest. Places the sharp metal scent of a padlock in the clasp just to be certain. Then a chain around it, heavy with loops and knots. Hides it in a cupboard. Drops the cupboard in a lake of water, underneath which he can’t sense it.

The memory feels more distant now. Less sharp and painful.

“Later we’ll open up the safe and work through the things in there.” Skin against skin as Fiona clasps her hands. “But I don’t think you’re ready for that in here. Matt, are you ready to tell me what happened?”

Matt continues to rock back and forth on the bed, but not as violently as before. The cuffs still bite into his wrists. The cell smells like vomit. A memento of his attempt at lunch.

“OK,” Fiona says slowly. “I’d like to make a contract to life. Like we usually do. Only this one will have to be verbal. Nod your head if you promise to stay alive for a week. Until next Saturday.”

Slowly Matt stops rocking. He doesn’t nod.

***

On Sunday, Bucky’s heart sky rockets when they step into the visiting room.

Fast uneven footsteps to Matt’s side of the table. Harsh breathing. Loud sound as Bucky falls to his knees. “Matt. Jesus.” Warm flesh touches the swollen side of Matt’s face. The harsh breathing turns to wheezing. Turns to high pitched breaths that barely resemble breaths. The air turns thick with fear.

“Hey,” the guard near the door says. This one he knows. The one who called Trish Talk claiming Matt was faking it. The guard Matt overheard complaining about him trying to get special treatment by not eating. “Back up.”

“Hell no.” Tony’s voice. Tense with anger. “We’re allowed one hug at the start and end of every visit. This freak out counts as a hug. On a related note. How the fuck does a guy in protective custody get finger mark bruises on the side of his face?”

Bucky stinks of fear. He’s not breathing. Matt reaches for him, as close as the cuffs attached to the table let him. Eventually the fingers tracing the bruising around his face find his own. He guides them to his chest, over his heart. Takes a slow even breath. Breathe Bucky.

“See Barnes.” Tense anger in Jessica’s voice too. “He’s alive. Not about to win any beauty contests, but alive. Don’t make me end this visit with a trip to the ER.”

It takes a few repetitions, but eventually Bucky starts copying Matt’s breathing. Movement of hair as his head shakes. Wet in his voice. “Matt. Fuck!” His voice steels. “Who did this to you?”

Matt hunches his shoulders. Shakes his head. He can’t tell them. And it’s not like he can tell them the stupid lie the guards tried to tell Fiona. That he’d done it to himself. That’s possible and true of many of his bruises, but as Fiona pointed out yesterday, the only way for him to get finger mark bruising like that is if someone else did it to him. The angle’s completely wrong.

“Come on Murdock.” Fabric against metal as Jessica leans against the table. “I could use someone to beat up.”

Another shake of his head. He doesn’t want to think about what happened. Let alone talk about it. He acted pathetic. Labelling. A cognitive distortion. He knows. But he still feels like he’s pathetic. He would’ve done anything to get them to leave him alone.

Bucky’s hand trembles over his chest. A jump in his heart-rate, so Matt knows to expect something to happen. Shouting seems most likely. Yelling at Matt for all the things he’s done to mess things up. What he’s not expecting is the warm arm and the cold one to wrap around him. Bucky’s chin to tuck over his shoulder. And a wet voice to say “Please pal. Please talk to us. Please let us help you so you can come home.”

The tower. The couch. Lucky. The fleece blanket. His chest aches. He wants to sit on the couch with an audio-book playing and the treasure box on his lap. He wants to make crafts, or fiddle with the car, and for everything to be simple and safe. He wants to be able to ask for hugs, talk about his feelings, use the sand tray, or rant about fictional characters, and to feel the constant tension around his chest loosen.

In here he’s trapped. In here he’s helpless.

“We know Wright’s the one who shot Foggy,” Jessica says as the sound of flesh against metal tells him she flops down on a chair. “Foggy finally got lucid enough to tell us. So if that’s what you’re hiding, don’t bother.”

Matt wages a war with himself, before giving up and burying his head into Bucky’s shoulder. He’s tired. If Foggy IDs Wright, they’ll be able to press charges against him. What if the person behind this doesn’t like that?

Tony’s fast footsteps walk back into the room. “He’ll give us a few minutes. How’s the pup?”

Bucky’s voice comes out strangled. His heart still beats too fast. “He’s too thin Tony. And there’s fresh blood on the back of his head.”

Tony’s casual tone is a contrast to his fast heart-rate. “Both those things we can fix once we get him back to the tower. Even if I have to design a safety helmet for him to wear all the time.You told him about the radios yet?”

“Just getting to it,” Jessica says, sounding annoyed. “Murdock. We know Justin Fletcher’s mother is involved.”

Matt flinches against Bucky. Extracts himself from the hug so he can shake his head at Jessica.

“Yup,” Tony says, as if he doesn’t sense Matt’s distress. “See, how would Rowe leave his apartment in full battle gear unless he knew the Avengers were on their way? We didn’t piece it together until Birdbrain mentioned Mommy Dearest mysteriously knowing you and him were watching them. I had Jarvis check the logs. What happened a few minutes before she pretended to spot you? Clint gave your location over the Avengers line. And what happened a few minutes before the confrontation with Rowe? Natasha gave everyone the location of the apartment building. Someone is accessing Avenger communications.”

No! They need to stop digging. He signs ‘stop’ then ‘danger.’

“Danger was my middle name before you were born sweetheart,” Tony says dismissively. “Now accessing Avengers communications is a big deal. It’s impossible. Unhackable. I made sure of it. There’s just one problem. When Pepper set up the deal with the NYPD that gives us full police powers, they wanted something in return. Some assurance that we wouldn’t use our powers for evil or whatever. So each station in New York has access to a radio hardwired to Avengers com lines. They can use it to spy on us when we’re working in the city. It’s only supposed to be signed out by anyone in NYPD ranked captain or above. Captain Darius says the one at 15th precinct police station hasn’t been signed out in months, but there are a lot of other stations to look at. Whoever our guy is, he has access to one of those radios. Which puts another giant x against Rowe’s name. He may have a few shady contacts, but him having access to one of those, doesn’t seem likely. Especially since he was in custody when Mrs Fletcher spotted you and Clint.”

“Nat says Fletcher’s mother ain’t doing it for him.” Bucky’s voice sounds shaky. His footsteps when they move around to Tony and Jessica’s side of the table sound even more shaky. “Doing it for the husband most likely. Says she loves him, and he loves his son.”

But he’s not his son, is he? His hands shake as he tries to remember what Mrs Fletcher said to him that day she told him to stay quiet. ‘Just like his real father.’ So her husband isn’t Bubblegum’s real father. Does that have anything to do with this? It’s hard to say. This whole thing is a mess.

“Wright’s gone into hiding again,” Jessica says. “He’s good at that. But we’ll find him. We’ll find everyone involved in this and bring them down.”

Matt shakes his head. Clenches his fists hard enough that the cuffs bite into his wrists. “You can’t. Y-you just n-need to - to keep everyone s-safe until after the trials.”

“Pal.” Bucky sounds pained. “You’re part of that everyone.”

He’s not. He doesn’t matter. “You n-need to get K-Karen. Foggy. Anna. Ned. Candy. Everyone. Hide them in the tower. Make them safe.” But that’s not true anymore, is it? Devan made it into the tower. The tower isn’t safe. “Find somewhere safe.”

“Weapon scanners are more portable than ever.” Metal tapping as Tony fiddles. “I’ve got hidden armour. Stun guns. Page is terrifying with the knock out stun gun. I’m already keeping everyone safe. The only one we can’t cover is you. Short of breaking you out of this prison with its so called protective custody. Which Steve tells me is a no no.”

“You’re trying to help us, right pal?” Scraping sound as Bucky brings his chair closer to the table. “So let us help you. Tell us what you know, and we’ll be able to keep you safe.”

A jolt of some strong emotion explodes in his chest. “There’s nowhere safe.”

Tony scoffs. “Course there is. Are you doubting my-”

“It’s not safe,” Matt says firmly. This is a fact. More true than any of his fact cards. “Natasha was shot. Foggy was shot. Karen was attacked. Pearson was killed. I was - nothing is safe. Nowhere is safe. Nowhere in this whole fucking world is safe!”

“Hey Murdock.” Leather crinkling as Jessica leans forward. “Breathe. I understand. This world is a pretty fucking scary place for you right now. But if you help us lock these people up, the world will get a little less terrifying.”

It won’t. Fisk owns the prison. He decides how safe Matt is. Whoever is sending the guys after Matt’s friends decide how safe it is. Anyone around Matt and the others decide how safe it is, because anyone can turn out to be dangerous. All they need to do is get the upper hand for one second and it’s all over. “Nothing is safe. Nothing is ever safe.”

“I know Murdock.” Some kind of emotion in the words. Jessica sounds like she does know. “I know Murdock. Nothing is safe, and nowhere is safe. But I promise you. If you trust us to let us help you, I will do my best to keep you safe.”

Her heart doesn’t beat lie. The promise means everything. “You should keep Karen safe.”

“Already done,” Jessica says swiftly. “Stark’s kitted her out. She’s still staying at my friend’s apartment. The one build like Fort Knox. She needs to go anywhere, Luke goes with her. Though between you and me, I think she might be the better fighter by now.”

“And Foggy?” Matt asks, voice small.

“Steve’s set up a rota. One Avenger and at least two security agents on him at all times.” Movement. Some kind of gesture from Tony. “I’ll move him back to the tower in a couple days. That’ll decrease the security risk. Doctors don’t think he’ll be up for visiting here anytime soon. Not with the five hour waiting times. But that’s OK. We’ll just move you back to the tower. Preferably before you need a bed on the med floor next to him.”

“I’m not going to let anything happen to Karen or Foggy,” Jessica says firmly. “Nelson still owes me money.”

Jessica watched the video, but she doesn’t seem to tiptoe around him as much as the others do sometimes. She asked Karen to watch the video, but maybe she had a good reason for that. “Sorry I hit you.”

Slight jump in Jessica’s heart-rate. Surprise. It doesn’t show in her voice. “You call that a hit Murdock? You completely pulled that punch.”

“I wasn’t mad at you,” Matt says. He’s been thinking about why he hit Jessica. It’s not something he’d usually do. “Not as mad as I acted. I was just really mad at Karen, and I couldn’t be, so I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

“Enough with the sap.” Sound of fabric as Jessica shifts. Uncomfortable? “I’ll accept your apology if you stop apologising. And next freak out, try a real punch. I’m not going to break.”

He couldn’t do that. She’s Karen’s friend.

“You’re going to regret apologising in a minute Murdock. Because we’re getting you out by any means necessary. You don’t help us out, the video with Wright ends up making its way to every newspaper inbox in New York.”

Shock settles, cold in the pit of his stomach. He shakes his head. “No.”

“Matt.” Bucky’s heart beats too fast. “It’s not like we want to. But right now public opinion is loud on both sides. This could tip the scales. We need to get you out of here.”

“By releasing a video without my permission?” The cuffs wrapped around his wrists feel distant, like he’s standing apart from his own body. “Bucky. Please. I can - I can handle this.”

Sharp gesture from Tony. Anger in his voice. “Rotting away in here starving to death and getting beaten up. Great plan.”

  1. So maybe it’s not a brilliant plan. He doesn’t have the concentration for one of those. But it keeps the others safe. That’s what’s important.



“Matty.” Clunk of strange metal against metal as Bucky sets his arms on the table. The sound-waves echo strangely. It’s nice to see the unique pattern again. “You’ve lost a lot of weight. I think even more than you did at the tower. Losing all that weight in a short amount of time. It could damage your heart. Cause other problems. Christ Matty, this could kill you.”

Is that really such a bad thing?

Tony’s voice. Tense. “That’s not the point here, is it pup?”

Numbly Matt shakes his head. He’s not trying to kill himself. He just can’t eat. “Please don’t release the video.”

“Please tell us what’s going on,” Tony counters, a challenging note in his voice.

He can’t.

***

“So, we’re thinking quaker cinnamon oatmeal?” Fiona asks while Matt steps onto the weighing machine.

Matt nods. They’re going over the commissary food list. Matt can order from it once every two weeks. The options aren’t great, but at least they’re less likely to be tampered with. It’s the best course of action since foods aren’t allowed to be delivered from outside the prison.

The medical floor is full of the stench of blood and bleach. Fear too. Matt can guess what’s made the place stink of fear. The North Infirmary Command building is full of prisoners who need extra supervision due to medical reasons, as well as ones like Matt who need to be locked away from general population due to their vulnerability or the notoriety of their case. He’s heard the guards yell at prisoners . Sometimes there’s a smack that could be a hit of some kind.

He’d expected to hear the prisoner on prisoner violence. What he didn’t expect was how much guard on prisoner violence there is. Maybe he’s just unlucky. His building holds the more vulnerable prisoners. It could be different elsewhere. But it’s strange to hear the hate the guards hold for them. Some are understandable. Matt’s unit holds three child abusers, kept away from general population for their safety. But only one of them is convicted, The other two are undergoing trial. Innocent until proven guilty doesn’t seem to be a popular concept around here.

And the transgender woman, accused of shop lifting, is treated with as much verbal abuse as the convicted child abuser.

How do they expect to plunk prisoners in this culture of abuse and violence, and have them to come out reformed at the end of it?

“142 pounds,” one of the nurses calls out. “You can step off now.”

He toes his way backward, feeling for the edge. He can just about sense where his shoes are from the echoes of clatter sounds that come from the hallway. The glare of the two guards feels heavy on the side of his head, despite the fact that both his arms are still cuffed behind his back.

“He was 155 just over a week ago,” Fiona says. She’s a warm presence by his side. Ignoring the guards when they warn her to keep her distance. “He’s had problems with his weight before. We estimate his normal weight at about 175 pounds nine weeks ago. Then he fell as low as 135 pounds. He’s been trying to gain it back since then.”

Typing sound. The other nurse enters something into a computer? “142 pounds is the low end of normal for his height and weight. However, adding in how much of it is muscle mass, he could be considered underweight. He should eat more.”

If only it were that easy.

“We’re working on it.” Fiona doesn’t move from his side as he fumbles his feet back into his shoes. It’s comforting. He’s glad she came to this. Mark is one of the guards. Matt can feel the pressure of his gaze. The man doesn’t like him much. “The cafeteria won’t adjust his meals. We’re ordering what we can from the commissary list. Quaker cinnamon oatmeal. Matt, how about trying the ramen soup? I know you might not like it, but it could be worth a try?”

Sudden press of fingers to the back of his head. He flinches as the raw flesh throbs.

“Everyone calm down.” Fiona’s warmth comes from in front of him. Between him and the two guards. “He just startled. He’s blind. If you’re going to touch him, it’s useful to warn him first.”

Right. There’s a nurse to his side. He hadn’t noticed her getting so close.

Mark scoffs. His muscles are tense. So are the other guard’s. “That’s a load of crock. He’s not really blind. He’s Daredevil. Super-hearing or whatever.”

“His senses fluctuate,” Fiona says firmly. She’d asked him before if it was OK if she gave the guards some tips on how to act around him. How to guide him, and what to do if he has a panic attack. So far they haven’t taken it well. Matt knows he’s not the only prisoner with mental health issues. Not by a long shot. So it’s strange how poorly trained they are at accommodating difference. “Unless he tells you he doesn’t need them, it’s best to provide him with the same accommodations you would any blind person.”

Two days ago he heard someone curse out a guard for not telling a blind prisoner that they were closing a cell door, hitting them with it. “She’s blind you asshole,” the voice had said. Basic accommodations might be asking too much.

***

Using one of his books as a table, Matt writes the letters carefully.

The trip to the infirmary was useless. Some stinging alcohol stuff on his open wounds, and a comment that a lot of prisoners in solitary bang their heads against the walls. Attention seeking, they’d called it. One nurse mentioned a patient who banged his head so repetitively, he exposed the bone. Matt’s no expert, but when you scalp yourself, something is wrong enough that you do need some attention.

Someone else on Matt’s unit bangs their head. He hears it sometimes. He managed to tell Fiona, and she told the guards, but nothing’s been done about that either.

Fiona said that whatever he’s thinking of when he’s banging his head, he should try to think of something nicer. They can’t help him if he doesn’t communicate with them. But he can help himself, by locking up the thoughts he can’t deal with right now. By imagining he’s on the couch with the fleece blanket. By grounding himself. By distracting himself with audio-books and exercise. By remembering to take some time to meditate, or just sit on the bed and stim. He usually feels less overwhelmed after a long time rocking on the bed with his hands over his ears or an audio-book playing.

He’s used the writing paper to make notes before. For his session with Fiona today, so she could tell others about the people he hears who might need help. The woman in his unit who gets called names. A boy somewhere on the floor below who spends all his time crying. Someone in the yard planning to beat up someone else.

But this note is more important. It can’t wait until Tuesday, the next day Fiona will come.

Maybe Father Lantom is right. Maybe he can help people, even if he needs to do it in a different way to before. Even among all the fear, and everything going wrong, maybe he can do something good.

Walking over to the door of his cell. He waits until the echoing footsteps outside say guard, then places it over the window in the middle of the door. Makes sure the paper is facing the right way, and the letters aren’t upside down. His heart beats too fast. Most of the guards seem OK, but Mark seems to have a grudge against him, and he still remembers those two guards, leading him straight to Baseball Bat and the others.

Loud bang that vibrates his door. “Don’t cover the glass.” Mark’s voice. Just his luck.

No words want to leave his mouth, so he takes the paper from the window, points at the words, then puts it back so the man can read them. Come on. It can’t get any more obvious than that. The guy has to understand. He’s trying to help.

Another bang. Mark sounds angrier. “Don’t cover the goddamn window!”

Just read the words Mark. Come on. Be the understanding guy you said you were on the radio, and understand.

Mark doesn’t understand. “Right. That’s it! Back up against the door and put your hands through the port so I can handcuff them.”

Matt blinks in surprise. But all he needs to do is read the paper and he’ll understand.

“Hands through the port asshole, or I’ll call the extraction team.”

An extraction team. He’s read at least one news story of a prisoner dying from that. Several armed correction officers enter a cell and drag the prisoner out by force. Several armed guys against one unarmed guy is a recipe for injury.

Frustration boiling through him, he puts his hands through the port, putting through the piece of paper too. Tight click of metal around his wrists. No sign the guy is paying any attention to the paper.

“Stand back from the door.” A threat in the man’s voice.

Matt does as he’s told. Piece of paper still clutched in his hand.

Creak of the door opening. Heavy footsteps. Then a hand shoves his chest. He hits the bed hard enough to make the springs complain.

‘Listen up!” Hot breath in his face as Mark leans over him. “I don’t care if you’re friends with fancy pants Stark. I don’t care you’re famous now. And I don’t fucking care that you got raped. You aren’t getting any special treatment from me. And if you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll get the pepper-spray myself and take great pleasure in taking you down a peg. Got it?”

If Matt had his words he could explain, but he doesn’t. There’s hot breath in his face. Tense muscles and anger. A man looming over him. He nods, heart racing. It’s the only way he’s going to get out of this. It’s not like he can hit him like he did Fisk.

Foggy said he mustn’t fight back. Not police officers. Not correction officers. He has to be good.

“Out there you might be some hot shot.” Another sharp shove to his chest. “But in here you’re nothing. Got it? Nothing!”

***

Crouching on the ground of his cage in the yard, Matt rocks slightly from side to side.

His arms are bruised, his head is bruised, his everything is bruised. It was a bad night. That’s why he’s out here, trying to clear his head. Shortly after Mark left and the night shift started, there were voices down the hallway from the transgender woman’s cell.

“It’s infected,” she’d said with wet in her voice. “Come on. I’m really worried. I need some antibiotic cream or something.”

Another voice. Has to be a CO. “What are you willing to do for it?”

The next ten minutes were spent screaming, throwing himself into the door, feverishly covering his window when a set of footsteps passed in the hope they’d stop. They didn’t. No one cares.

Maybe Tony’s right. Maybe he’s not helping anyone in here. Maybe he’s got all this wrong, and he needs to learn to trust them. To work out problems together instead of on his own.

Sudden noise from across the yard. Matt straightens, on alert. He’s heard people talking. Fisk has apparently made it clear that’s he’s the one running the prison now some previous guy called Dutton is dead. The guy Fisk must’ve made Baseball Bat and the others kill. Survivors loyal to the old guy aren’t happy with the change in management. There’s talk of a riot as part of an attempt on Fisk’s life. He’d tried to warn the officers last night.

Crash. Bang. Coming from one of the large cafeterias on the far side of the yard. More crashes. More bangs. Yelling. Sounds of pain. Alarms going off in another part of the prison.

It’s a cry of pain that pushes him over the edge, because he recognises it. Mark. A correction officer. Panicked sound as he talks. Into his radio? “They’re swarming us. We need help in here. I repeat. Send backup!”

This is a bad idea, he thinks as he slams the side of his cage. Loose fixings on the top right. Climbing up, he makes short work of pulling them apart, pulling himself through the gap. But he can’t just listen to those sounds of pain and do nothing. If the correction officers are down, a lot of people could get hurt.

“Hey, where you going?!” A prisoner in another cage yells behind him. “Where’s he going?”

“I don’t know, but wherever it is, he’s going there fast.”

Matt times it just right, clambering up to a rooftop, and hopping down to slip through the door when a correction officer opens it. Part of the backup maybe. Only three of them. Not much against the hundreds of hammering heartbeats in the large cafeteria.

“Hey you!” One of the men shouts, but Matt’s already disappearing around a corner.

It’s difficult to take this maze of echoing sounds, air currents, heartbeats, and understand the layout of the building. Understand which door to take. Which way to go. It’s a pair of footsteps that tell him. Frightened heartbeats. Heading towards him, away from the chaos in the large echoing room that must mean cafeteria.

Matt runs towards them, then past. Sure enough there’s a creak of a large door swinging shut. Then bang. Squeal of hinges as someone else runs out of the packed room. Prisoners trying to find safety in the yard?

He slips past them, through the door. Moving quickly to the side of the large cafeteria. Noise and chaos around him. Quietly he slinks behind metal that echoes the shouts and movements of the prisoners. A table? Hopefully it hides some of him from view.

He doesn’t do his best in these situations. He does best in dark alleyways where he can sneak up on people. Take them out one by one from the shadows. Here there are few places to hide. People are everywhere. Lots of smack of flesh on flesh. Fighting each other. Too many to take them all out.

There. Mark’s voice to his right. “Stand down! I said stand down!”

There’s a heartbeat on the floor behind the CO. Wet breathing. Sucking crackling sound in the person’s lungs. Badly hurt. Stabbed maybe.

Darting forward, Matt throws himself between Mark and the sharp motion, quick heartbeat of the man attacking him. Quick blow to the attacker’s stomach to catch him off guard. Grabs his wrist in a lock Natasha taught him. Clatter of plastic. The weapon falls.

Matt has the man on his stomach and his arms bunched together with his jacket in two seconds. It’ll take him a lot longer to get out of the improvised restraints.

Hitch of several heartbeats nearby. They’ve noticed. Footsteps moving towards them.

Matt keeps his body between Mark and the threats, hoping the CO gets the hint to make it for the door. No such luck. Shock in Mark’s voice as he hisses “what the hell are you doing?”

Should’ve known he wouldn’t take the hint. The man didn’t when Matt tried to warn him about this. Matt points at the injured man behind Mark, then at the door. There are a lot of people, but Matt’s pretty sure he can get them that far. The fighting’s still contained to the cafeteria, and the platforms above. They go that way, they should be safe.

Surprised breathing from Mark. He’s too warm in some parts of his body. Bruises? Nothing more serious than that. “What the fuck-”

Fast footsteps and sudden movement from one of the people running towards them. Sidestepping quickly, Matt grabs the charging man’s wrist. Spins him around so he charges into one of the other set of approaching footsteps.

Two more down. One other close enough to be dangerous. A punch sends the man flying across the cafeteria. Clang as he hits one of the benches.

Mark has the injured man standing. Grabbing the man’s other side, Matt tugs them toward the doors. Sound of the team he passed approaching.

Mark’s footsteps hesitate, then follow. At the door the CO pauses again. “You better not be thinking about going back in there.”

That’s exactly what he’s thinking. There’s the swipe sound of a knife cutting through air from the platform above. Not many of them have weapons, but some of them do. If he does nothing, someone could die.

“Goddamn it Murdock,” Mark whispers. “Stop pretending you’re some kind of hero. Let the COs handle this.”

But Matt’s already spinning away. Blocking some wild blow he doesn’t think was meant for him. Slinking between two men grappling each other. They’re evenly matched. No weapons. Unlikely to injure each other badly.

Not like the guy with the knife above him. No, make that three guys with knives. All gathered around one thundering heartbeat. Several thready heartbeats around him. Smell of blood. Injured people?

Structure to his left amid the chaos. The stairs. He leaps up, feet finding the metal banister where he expects to. It’s quicker to run up the metal than use the stairs themselves.

Less people up here. Most on this level are huddled to the edges of the room. In their cells? Landing neatly by the swish of knife, he kicks the man’s hand against the metal banister, causing him to drop the weapon. A punch to the side of his face to stop him reaching for it.

The next one comes at him instead of the intended victim. It’s simple to make use of the moves Natasha taught him. A twist to the man’s hand that completely incapacitates him. Another to his head that should keep him out for a while. Kick to the last man’s legs, sending him backwards. A foot to his wrist that makes him cry out and drop the weapon.

“Thank you,” the intended victim says, out of breath. A voice that makes Matt’s shoulders tense. Fisk. He recognises the scent now he’s looking for it.

Matt shrugs. It’s not like he intended to save Fisk.

Shouting below. Several heartbeats walking through the doors with stiff movements that suggest body armour. Sound of compressed air. And ugh. Matt covers his nose. Pepper-spray. It makes his eyes itch and he’s nowhere near it.

Screams from below and fast footsteps. Most of them heading up here, to the safety of their cells. One more thing to do before he’s done. He can’t risk one of them taking the weapons the men dropped.

Placing his shoe over each weapon in turn, he aims carefully. Kicking each of them through the gap between the railings. Past the moving COs, so they land behind them, away from the prisoners. Done. Now, to get out of here somehow.

“Come with me,” Fisk says. “You can hide in my cell. Once this is over one of my officers will send you back.”

Like he’s going to trust that. Fisk is the guy who sold him out to be assaulted again. Hopping onto the barrier, Matt jumps.

It’s a long drop, but he knows how to roll into it, distributing the impact over his body. He takes off running for the double doors. If he can get outside, away from the adrenaline filled COs chasing prisoners, he can surrender to someone with a cooler head. Hopefully not get sprayed in the process.

What he doesn’t expect is how much pepper spray there already is on the ground floor. It stabs at his eyes, swirling around him thick like a cloud. The sudden input of painful stimuli makes it difficult to read his other senses. Metal hits his shins. Reaching out to stop himself falling, his hands hit metal as well. What?

His mental map rejigs in his head. He’d been aiming for the door, but he’d hit a bench instead. Where’s the door?

“Hands on your head,” a voice behind him shouts. No time. Turning around, he does as he’s told, trying to appear harmless. The pepper-spray in the room stings, but it’s nothing compared to what a dose to the face would be. “On your knees.”

_“Get on your knees slut!”_

The pause must be too long. Because there’s sound of compressed air, and liquid fire pours onto his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers for this chapter =
> 
> More eating disorder issues. Strong emotions. Hints to suicidal thoughts. Scary place that is Matt's mind (including his low self esteem, inability to let people help, and if you're watching closely, slightly warped memories of events.) Self harm. Abuse (including unspecified sexual abuse) of a transgender woman. Abuse of prisoners by guards. People being assholes. Small flashback to last chapters sexual assault.
> 
> As always, if you think something should be added to this list, tell me in a comment.
> 
> Notes =
> 
> Fiona's exercise at the start is great. It's been a lifesaver to me at times. Unfortunately Matt does have a tendency to consciously and unconsciously repress and shrug off traumatic events at times, which isn't good because they crop up later and can still affect you unconsciously. This is what she's worried about, as past Matt would've grabbed hold of this technique and tried to use it to shove everything to the back of his head. I like to think he's moved past that and acknowledged that he does need to work through these things. I like to take a mental photograph and enlarge / shrink, etc the visuals as Fiona says. Matt isn't a visual person, so I had to focus on sensation instead. I think you could use this technique for any sense (sound, smell, etc). It's a great way to feel more in control of the memory and your reaction to it. Just don't pull a past Matt and use it as an excuse not to deal with your issues.
> 
> Next chap will be up somewhere between the 11th and 18th of dec. If you've read the end notes of my last chap, you'll know I'm having a zillion life problems at the moment. But I am still working on this fic.


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ends on a cliffhanger. If you don't like that, feel free to wait until chap 53 is published before reading this one.
> 
> See end notes for poss spoilery trigger warnings about this chapter.

Matt tugs against his restrains. His eyes burn. The skin on his face feels stretched tight.

A blow to his head. A voice he doesn’t know. “Stop resisting!”

The straps are tight around his wrists and ankles. He can’t move. Panic bubbles up. _Hot breath against his back. Laughter. Can’t move._

Another sharp blow to his face. It whips his head to one side. “I said, stop resisting!”

Cool water against his face. He flinches.

“Calm down Mr Murdock,” another voice says. “I’m rinsing the pepper spray off your face now.” A pause. Talking to someone else. “We’ve got this. He’s restrained. You don’t have to keep hitting him.”

“All it takes is one second,” the first voice says.

More cool water. It helps. “That may be, but was this one even violent to you? From what I saw he was too busy trying to claw his eyes out to notice anyone else.”

The first voice snorts. “They’re all violent.”

The water helps. His throat is red raw. It hurts to breathe. This happened before, didn’t it? Last time only his eyes burned, not his throat. His Dad was there, pouring water over his eyes.

He wants his Dad here now.

“There’s a guy coming in,” someone says after several minutes of water, from the swishing curtain that counts as a doorway. “Trampled in the riot. You better go. Jerry told me to take over here.”

A few minutes of discussion before footsteps walk away.

Sound of heavy footsteps making their way to his side as the stinging grows in his eyes again. Water dripping as the cloth is picked up. Cool water soothes his eyes. Fisk’s voice. “I considered killing you.”

Matt clenches his fists. The straps bite into his wrists. Trapped. Vulnerable. The bed railing his left hand is strapped to rattles more than the right. Something he could use to escape with time and patience. He might not have time.

Flop sound of the cloth falling into the water. Plastic and sloshing as another container is brought closer. This one feels warmer. “Close your eyes. This one has soap in it.”

_”Close your eyes Matty.”_

Matt blinks at his Dad’s voice. But as the dripping sound of water fills the small corner of the medical bay. Sound of fabric. Fisk wringing out a cloth. He closes his eyes.

His body flinches at the first swipe of warm cloth. But Fisk didn’t lie. Water and soap. It’s strange to have someone he considers an enemy treat him so tenderly. Stranger with his Dad’s phantom presence still around him. What is Fisk planning?

“I’ve heard it said that the motivation to rape comes from a thirst for power.” Another gentle but firm stroke of cloth down his face. Moving away from his eyes. Chasing the pepper spray off. “I’m afraid I underestimated Mr Short and Mr Rowe, again. Mr Short’s tendency to manipulate is impressive, but ultimately makes him untrustworthy. As does Mr Rowe’s ambition. I thought we had an agreement, but they thought not. I have no doubt that they had knowledge of what was to happen this morning. The fact they didn’t share it is…worrying.”

The warm cloth stops. Matt keeps his eyes closed.

“The man who put you in here. He’s been a valuable investor. But he’s getting desperate. He didn’t agree with my choice to keep Rowe and Short alive. And I have reason to believe it was he who facilitated this attack on me this morning. Retaliation. And an attempt to wipe his tracks by getting rid of anyone who might have knowledge of who he is.”

His eyes itch, but they’re not on fire anymore. He shivers as there’s the leather scraping sound of the cuffs being released around his left wrist.

Fisk’s slow heavy footsteps move around his other side to release the other one. “I find myself in a dilemma Mr Murdock. Do I kill you for ruining the Hell’s Kitchen that could’ve been. Or do I reward you for saving my life?”

Matt’s freed hands pause partway toward his stinging face. Probably not a good idea when he has pepper spray all over his hands. His fingers dive to unhook the straps around his ankles before Fisk can get to them. He doesn’t want Fisk touching him anymore than he has.

“You are not the man you once were.” Fisk’s footsteps take a respectful couple of steps back. “That much is clear. But you have potential. That I saw this morning. That potential is dangerous. I can’t leave it unchecked. And yet, I believe we have a common enemy Mr Murdock. The man who organised the hit on your friend: Mr Franklin Nelson. The man who organised the hit on me. You’d like his name, wouldn’t you?”

Freeing the last of the straps, Matt draws his limbs to him, not sure how to sit. Nods, whole body tense.

“I give you this.” Fisk takes a step forward. It takes everything in Matt not to flinch away or attack. Fisk seems to make no attempt not to loom. “Whatever debt I may have owed you from this morning is gone. I owe you nothing. And you don’t say where you got it. Only that you overheard it.”

Fisk wouldn’t be giving him this information if it didn’t serve him as well, but Matt nods. With the name he has options.

After Fisk gives the man’s name, Matt blinks in surprise. Of course. It all makes sense now.

“Hold out your hand,” Fisk says. “I have something that belongs to you.”

Nothing in the man’s voice to suggest he’s planning something. Matt holds out his hand warily, ready to snatch it back. His body tingles, warning him of danger. Instead familiar plastic is placed on his palm.

His fingers scan it. Ducky. The same wear marks on her sides. The same chipped toe from Foggy playing about with her. She’s covered in something wet and sticky. His nose is too stuffed up and sore from the pepper spray to tell what it is, but it’s familiar enough that his fingers recognise it. Blood.

“I hope I don’t have to see you again Mr Murdock.” Fisk’s footsteps move away. Swish of the curtain as he moves through it.

As if that’s a cue, another set of footsteps approach him. “Hands behind your back.”

Matt does so, keeping his hand around Ducky. The sticky blood against the plastic makes him sick to his stomach. It’s a reminder of the kind of person he made a deal with.

***

“Hey Matty.” Foggy’s voice slurs down the phone, the same way it does when he’s tired or drunk. But it is Foggy.

Matt sits a little straighter in the uncomfortable chair, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Fog?” For some reason his voice feels wet.

“Yeah Matty.” A smile in Foggy’s voice too. “I’m here. How are you? Tony said there was a riot there today?”

The day-room is small. It smells of old books - even though he’s pretty sure there aren’t any books - and flaking paint. And it’s the best room in the world because he gets to talk to Foggy in it. “I’m in protective custody. They keep me away from general population.”

Foggy huffs. “Matt..”

Right. No secrets. “I stopped someone from stabbing a guard. But I got pepper sprayed.”

“Oh.” Wince in Foggy’s voice. “Ouch.”

Matt nods, holding the phone close to his ear. “My eyes itch.” Even after a shower and changing his clothes.

“Well don’t rub them. You’ll make it worse.” A pause. Foggy sighs. “You’re rubbing them right now, aren’t you?”

“No.” Matt hastily removes his hand from his face. It’s all so swollen and itchy. There are marks of pain where he tried to claw the stinging away. It’s hard to stop.

“I know you,” Foggy accuses. “You get hurt, and you prod and poke. You’re like some kind of masochist or something.”

Matt scrapes his shoes back and forth over the carpet underneath the small desk. It’s nice to have this slice of normal after everything that’s happened. He doesn’t want to decide whether or not to tell them. It’s too big a decision. What if he tells them and the man kills them for it? Then again, isn’t that what they say is already happening. There’ve been attempts on Foggy’s life even after he was placed in here. “Are you OK?”

“Eh,” Foggy says in a verbal shrug. “They’re weaning me off the hard drugs which sucks. But hey, bonus point: I have a really gnarly scar. It’s going to help me get all the girls.”

Between the new firm and Daredevil, Matt’s been pretty caught up in obsession lately. When he gets hyper-focused like that, things like sex drive, or even appetite go out the window. But from what activity he remembers between obsession cycles, the words ‘chicks dig scars’ are untrue. Not that he’s prepared to dash Foggy’s hopes like that. “When are you going back to the tower?”

“Doctors say Wednesday. But I’m hoping for tomorrow instead. I mean, they’re transferring me to a medical floor that’s at least as well equipped as this hospital. It’s not like I need to be running a half marathon for that.”

True. Matt’s torn between wanting Foggy in the safer environment of the tower, and not wanting to risk complications from the transport, or whatever other reason they don’t want to transfer him for another two days. “Who’s guarding you?”

“Some terrifying ladies called Sandra and Nancy,” Foggy says. “Thor, and my Mom. Wanna say hi?”

“I don’t have to-” Matt says through gritted teeth. The thought of Thor being the one to guard Foggy puts him on edge.

“Too late!” Foggy’s voice says, sounding distant.

Anna’s voice talks over him. “Matt, sweetheart. How are you? I’ve been so worried. They only let you have three visits a week, and only three people at a time. Otherwise I would’ve come to see you.”

It’s difficult to listen to the amount of upset in Anna’s voice. “I’m OK.”

Anna takes a breath. Then her voice becomes even wetter. “Oh honey.”

What? What did he say? “I’m really OK. I’m just…” Just what? Just hanging in there. Just keeping it together until he can let go, because he can’t do that here. It’s not safe.

Shuffling of plastic, then Foggy’s voice comes back on the line. “Hey Matty. She’s having a moment. So what do you want to talk about? The kittens are doing OK. Completely cleared of whatever infection they had. Clint snuck one of them in to see me. All their eyes are open, and they’re playing now. Like regular kitten playing. It’s cute. Also painful. Sharp claws.”

An ache fills his chest. He really wants to hear that. The little kittens dashing around and pouching on each other.

“Or.” Hesitance enters Foggy’s voice. “Can we talk about Todd Vasquez? What did you think of the verdict?”

“Verdict?” His heart stops.

“Right. It only came out an hour ago. Guess you were kind of busy.” Foggy takes a deep breath. “It’s good news buddy. Guilty. Not that it could go any other way. I mean, they had his confession even if he denied it later. He, Adam Thomas, and Dennis Short all had glimpses of their faces in the uncut video. His so called friend Josh was happy to give all the dirt he could on the guy. We won’t know his sentence until they decide it, but from the charges, I’d say fifteen years at least.”

Matt turns his face away from the phone, getting his breathing under control. This is good. Better than good. This is only the charges for attacking Matt. If Dirt’s on the other videos, there will be more charges, and more years tacked on for those. And this is one trial down, three to go. Old Spice starts trial on Thursday. His face was on the video too, so he should get a conviction. The radios mentioned he and Baseball Bat were beaten up, but they’re still alive. The last two will take longer to get to trial. They should happen sometime in June.

This is good, so why can’t he feel happy about it?

“Buddy, what number are we on?”

Matt blinks. “I don’t know.” All the enthusiasm from getting to talk to Foggy is gone. Leaving him with a swampy mass of feelings he can’t identify.

“Want me to change the topic?” How is Foggy so considerate when he was dying days ago? “Unless you want to talk about something. I know a lot has happened recently.”

A lot has happened. Skittles and Cocaine are dead. It scares him. At least with Dirt, he can point to him and say he’s in Rikers prison, and that’s where he should be for at least fifteen years. He can’t do that with Skittles and Cocaine, because in his mind they can’t die. Monsters don’t die. So when he tries to think about where they are, he can’t point to anywhere he believes. They’re nowhere. Everywhere. Bogeymen waiting to pounce.

And Fisk. And the bruises on his face. And Foggy and the others still not being safe. A lot has happened.

“Claire talked to a plastic surgeon about your scar,” Foggy says, as if sensing the storm going on in Matt’s head, and distracting him from it. “He wants to try you on a silicone patch for a while. See if that helps it fade quicker. Then there might be some cortisol injections to make it flatter. He’s going off pictures and Claire’s descriptions since we missed his appointment with everything going on. He’ll want to see you before deciding on injections, but says silicone patches are the way to go for now. We’d get one to you now, but the prison is being funny about it.”

Another reason to tell them what he knows. If he gets out of prison, he gets Lucky, warm blankets, Foggy, and rid of the bumpy raw scar tissue on his back. “Fog,” he whispers. “Are they still trying to hurt you?”

“Trying being the operative word.” A smile in Foggy’s voice that sounds fake. “They poisoned my jello Matt. My jello. It didn’t get near me. Not with all the crazy security around here. But still, it’s the principle of the thing. Jello is sacred. There aren’t many foods I can eat with a stabled stomach. So them ruining jello for me is not cool. But we haven’t had any attempts for a while. Not since I pressed charges against Wright, and since that little fact leaked to the press.”

Tell everyone. That’s what he’d told Pearson. Tell everyone and they won’t be able to retaliate. She couldn’t do that without someone finding out what she was up to, but maybe Matt can.

But Pearson was one person. She could go into protective custody if need be. Matt has a whole group of people to protect. He may be able to out the guy, but without proof it won’t go any further than pointing fingers. And he can’t get that proof in here. Pearson had proof, but she never said where it was.

“Natasha’s trying to get information from my attempted murderers,” Foggy continues. “But it’s the same story. Disposable cell phones. Messages and tools left in packages. Nothing we can trace. Except one thing.”

“What?” How close are they getting to the truth?

“So at the start all of them were linked to Lawrence Rowe. His dealers or addicts who bought from him. Only now, it’s all kinds of criminals. The only things they have in common is that they’re desperate for something. Drugs or money. And every single one of them is known to Hell’s kitchen police station. Most were brought in for one reason or another in the past six weeks.”

Six weeks. Cold pools in this stomach. Four weeks after he was raped. Enough time for Mrs Fletcher to work out what her son’s involved with, and ask for help to deal with it. “You need to stop digging.”

“You’re coming home Matty,” Foggy says firmly. “You only need to glance at the response to Wright’s video to know that. Savedaredevil is back in action, and bigger than ever. Just let all of us help you, OK? Please, just let us help you.”

***

“I think you’re punishing yourself,” Fiona says on Tuesday morning as she sorts through the large order that arrived from the commissary. “I think you came into prison to try to protect your friends, but now, I think you’re staying to punish yourself.”

Matt shakes his head automatically, rhythmically tapping the metal of his cuffs against the bed frame. That can’t be true.

“Matt.” Sound of the thin mattress being decompressed as Fiona sits on the end of the bed. “Can you tell me why you’re here? Can you tell me why you haven’t told your friends what happened?”

“I hit Wright,” Matt says, words dull. He’s said them many times.

“You hit Wright because he shot Foggy.” She sounds so sure. Like she’s known that fact for a while. The Avengers must’ve told her. “Somehow you knew that.”

Matt shrugs. It’s not like he can deny something that’s all over the news. Everyone knows Foggy’s pressing charges against Wright, the cop who harassed Matthew Murdock.

“The thing I’m wondering about Matt,” Fiona says, sounds of cardboard as she places the food on the bed. “Is why you’re not speaking up to defend yourself, now there’s no reason not to.”

***

Matt lays on the bed and lets the sounds wash over him.

A buzzing radio above him. “I’m reporting live from Queens where thousands of people are gathered, calling for the release of Matthew Murdock following the leaked video of his interview with a Detective Wright.”

“It’s just wrong, you know?” A woman’s voice. Familiar. Alice’s mother? “He’s such a sweet soul. My daughter has a lot of anxiety problems, but within ten minutes of meeting him, she was talking and playing with him. She’s never done that before. It’s usually months before she so much as looks at a new person. He pulled her right out of her shell. She even decided to come here today to help him out.”

Another radio? Television? “We came all the way up from Catskills for this.” A man’s voice. Also familiar. Paul’s dad? “What they’re doing is wrong. Anyone hurt my friend, I’d punch their lights out. You wanna tell me anyone whose friend was dying wouldn’t do exactly the same thing he did when they met the guy who did it?”

“They’ve been friends since college.” Paul’s voice. “That’s nearly ten years. That’s way longer than I’ve known any of my friends, and I’d still be really upset if they got hurt.”

A little voice. Cheerful. Mandy. “I’m going to college. I work really hard at school.”

“I drew a picture for the government people.” Another young voice. This one from a radio to his left. “Look. Here’s Wright locked up because he’s a poopy head. And here’s Daredevil free and happy. I drew him a unicorn. I like unicorns.”

“Murdock’s all covered in bruises. Wright’s clearly harassing him. On top of that, apparently he broke one of the kid’s ribs?” The pharmacist he saved. “No one can look at that video and say Wright’s not the one who deserves to be locked up.”

Ed’s voice. “Look, I get people are scared of mental illness. But when you’re locking up someone because they do something anyone else would do, that points to a problem with this country. He’s not violent. He was just protecting one of his own.”

A male voice. “I met Murdock. I helped him get home after a panic attack. And Jesus, I know he’s older than me, but he’s just a scared kid. I don’t like the thought of him being locked away in prison. I’ve done time. That’s no place to recover from the kind of shit he went through.”

“Murdock is a hero.” A woman “Our president sent him on a aid mission, and he saved hundreds of lives. What are we saying as citizens if we don’t have his back after something like that?”

Clang of metal as a fist hits his cell door. “ _I said_ , whatever you’re holding, put it through the slot!”

His senses jolt back to his cell. What he’s holding? His fist flexes around Ducky. No. He needs her. Without her he’ll be all alone in here again.

“Put your hands through the slot now.” It’s Mark’s voice. “Or I’ll have to come in there.”

His face still feels raw from yesterday. He doesn’t want to get pepper sprayed again. But he doesn’t want to lose Ducky either. He knows he’s not technically allowed her. Mark will take her away.

“Are we doing this now?” Another voice.

“Might as well get it over with.” Mark’s voice. Some reluctance in there? Or maybe he’s imagining it. “He’s giving us an excuse.”

The man behind this is getting desperate. That’s what Fisk said. He’s trying to get rid of people who might know his identity. Does he think Matt might suspect who he is?

“Get the team. Everyone we need is on shift.”

Is that what this is? Are they planning to kill him? They didn’t do that before because it would draw attention. Now it will still draw attention. Matt has a bigger support group than ever. That’s what Foggy said. But maybe they’re willing to risk it.

The man’s getting sloppy. Before it seemed like he wanted to save Bubblegum. Now, maybe he still wants to, but he’s worried about himself too.

“Put your hands through the slot, or I’ll send an extraction team in there.”

People die by being extracted from their cells. He’s heard it happen. But people die after being put in cuffs too. If they have an order to kill him, then it won’t matter what he does. He’ll die either way.

Long minutes of sitting rigid on his bed before the door clicks open. He keeps his hand tight around Ducky. He shouldn’t fight back, but he can’t let them kill him either. And if they have pepper spray, he might not have any choice in the matter. Pepper spray can overwhelm him. Leave him vulnerable.

They enter shouting and swearing. Five heartbeats. All pumping fast with adrenaline. Scent of pepper spray on them. Other things. Body armour. Tasers maybe?

He drops quickly from the bed to the floor, hands on his head. His heart hammers in his chest, trying to concentrate on them. No guns. He thinks he’d be able to smell the scent of gunpowder over pepper spray. And they wouldn’t be able to pass off a bullet wound as normal injury in an extraction. Any other injury though…

A hand grabs his wrist. Another grabs his other wrist. A third pushes him to the ground. People standing over him. Looming over him. Grabbing him. His breath wheezes in and out of his chest. Panic tears whatever plan he had to shreds.

Click of metal as his hands are cuffed behind his back. They pinch. A boot steps carelessly on his leg. “He’s got something. He won’t let it go.”

Matt flinches just in time to take a kick to his shoulder instead of his head.

Mark’s voice. “Drop it!”

Ducky is Foggy’s. He needs to keep her safe.

A boot to his back. Another to his leg. Then they’re kicking him, and he can’t get up. They won’t let him get up.

But no. That was then. That was what happened before. This time is different. Keeping his hand around Ducky, he wriggles his way out of their holds. Gets his feet under him. Sprints for the corridor. His cell doesn’t have cameras, but out there does.

Not that that is a guarantee they won’t try anything. Tapes can be altered. Cameras can mysteriously stop working. As soon as the air currents change and he judges the buzzing camera to have a good view of him, he drops to his knees again. He hates it. The jarring of his knees against the floor makes his stomach churn. But he needs to be passive right now.

He needs to drop Ducky, but he can’t.

“That’s it!” Mark’s footsteps stomp toward him, along with the others. “I don’t know what you’re hiding, but if you don’t hand it over right now, I’ll have to pry it off you.”

“How do we do this?” One man asks another.

“Blow to the head,” another voice says. “Make it look accidental. Like we’re just trying to subdue him.”

Which means he needs to look subdued. Even if the cameras don’t pick it up, the other prisoners might see something through their windows. His breathing comes too fast. How is he going to get out of this one? If he fights back, he gets charged with assault of a corrections officer. If he’s passive, they could still kill him and cover it up afterwards.

“Grab him,” one voice says. Then there are warm bodies around him. Legs. Hearts beating with adrenaline. One hand makes a half hearted grab, and a boot kicks him in the chest.

Right. He screwed up. He forgot that all they need to do is move between him and the camera, and they won’t be able to tell if he’s resisting. This isn’t going to work. Not fighting back won’t work.

And his hands are cuffed behind his back, and they’re kicking him. One lands a punch to his head. Another pries at his hand. It’s suffocating. He’s trapped again, and he put himself in this situation. Get up. Get out. Find his feet and fight back. Deal with the consequences later. That’s the only solution that’s going to keep him alive right now.

All that goes out the window when he feels Ducky fall from his hand.

Panic blazes bright because it’s Ducky. Foggy bought her when Matt was having a sad day. They went to the park. They bought ice cream. They climbed a tree. Everything was horrible, and then it was all right, because Foggy made it better. Last night his nightmares weren’t so bad because he had Ducky clenched in his hand. He needs her.

He reaches for her without thinking, and a boot digs into his wrist, crushing the bones against the metal cuff. Another boot hits his head, and everything goes fuzzy. Then he’s curled him, still searching for Ducky and not finding her, and he’s not pretending to be passive anymore. He’s fighting for his life. For Ducky. And he can’t get up. They won’t let him up.

_“It’s difficult to understand how easy it is for someone to overpower you until you’ve been in that situation yourself” Fiona says._

_“All it takes is one second,” the voice says._

“Stop!” Mark’s voice. “Jesus! Stop!”

Matt stays curled up, trying to protect his head without the use of his arms. He breathes in and out shakily. Taste of blood in his mouth.

The boots stop. “But the phone call said-”

“I know what the fucking phone call said.” Movement. Mark crouches down. “Fuck the phone call. Help me put him back in his cell.”

“Mark,” one of the voice hisses. “What the hell? I could really use that money.”

“He saved Walker’s life yesterday. Mine too.” Some kind of emotion in Mark’s voice. He can’t tell what. “Did you know that?”

“I know how much money we could get if he has an accident,” a voice says. “That’s what I know.”

“It was a toy dinosaur.” Flesh against Kevlar. Mark pushes one of the men away. Movement. A gesture. Showing them something? “He was protecting a fucking toy dinosaur. We are not doing this, you hear me? We’re not doing this.”

***

Matt limps to the day-room that evening, and for once Mark doesn’t complain about how long he takes.

Nothing seems to be broken, but everything feels like it’s bruised. Extracted for possessing contraband. That’s what the report they wrote about him said. He’d overheard it.

At least two of the other men made another argument about the money the phone call said they could have. Same MO as the men sent after Foggy. The guy doesn’t care about deals. He went after Foggy. He went after Matt. He killed Pearson. He almost killed Foggy, trying to set up Baseball Bat to take the fall. When that plan fell through, he got desperate, and with each successive plan that falls through he gets even more desperate.

“I agreed to it before the riot,” Mark says as they stop next to the desk with the phone. “Shortly after the Wright video came out, and the Internet blew up trying to get you out. I thought you didn’t deserve that attention. That you were just a con artist. I guess I still don’t know what you are, but I sure as hell know you’re not supposed to be in here.” His voice lowers. “I got a phone call today. After what went down. Tell Stark I’ll do it. Only, be careful how you phrase it. I bet my ass they’re listening into the phone calls.” His footsteps walk out of the room.

Matt sits heavily in the chair. Everything aches. He doesn’t have Ducky. He’s not sure where she is. That makes his fingers move quickly to dial Foggy’s number.

He answers on the first ring. “Matty? That you? Are you OK?” Worry in Foggy’s voice. Come to think of it, yesterday Foggy somehow knew Matt was lying about being involved in the riot. What did he say? Tony told him there was a riot. Is Tony monitoring the prison? When did that start? He didn’t seem to know about his meeting with Baseball Bat, Old Spice, and the others. So unless Fisk controlled the security cameras, it wasn’t then. Then again, controlling the security cameras does sound like a Fisk thing to do.

Matt opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I want - I want to come back to the tower. Can I?”

“Jesus Matty.” Shuffling. Sitting up in his bed? “Yes Matty. Of course you can.”

“And I don’t want my old apartment.” The words hurt to say. He remembers the smell of exposed brick. The pride he’d felt moving in there. His first apartment all to himself. “It’s going to smell of dead dogs, and people know where it is. I don’t want it.”

“Sure buddy. That makes sense. I’m not sure you could move back in anyway. The security kind of sucks, even with the fancy bolts I put in.”

“I want to live in the apartment in the tower. At least until I figure out where else I can live.” He wants to live in Hell’s Kitchen. That’s where he grew up. That’s home. That’s filled with people he’s heard buzzing around him every day for years. Laughing. Crying. People he should protect.

But Hell’s Kitchen isn’t safe for him right now. And he wants the tower. His chest aches with how much he wants to be in the tower. The couch. The blanket. Lucky. Foggy. Everyone else.

“That’s fine Matty,” Foggy says. Worry in his voice. “We can stay in the tower as long as we want, remember? Tony gave the apartment to us.”

Nerves flutter in his stomach, because he doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be in the tower with Foggy. He knows what he has to do to make that happen, but it’s a lot to ask. He’s always faced his problems on his own. This is a really big problem. He’s not sure how to ask. “I joined the choir once.”

“Yeah buddy?” Foggy asks softly. “I can picture that. You as a choirboy.”

“A nun at my orphanage,” Matt continues hoarsely. “Didn’t like the music some of the kids listened to. So every mealtime she’d play choir music. I didn’t like the dorms. So I spent a lot of time hiding out in the church. It was the quietest place. I was singing, and it’s not always easy for me to tell if someone can hear me, so she did. Before, everyone was busy. Whenever they had to spend time with me, I could tell they didn’t want to. Their minds were elsewhere. They didn’t see me or really talk to me. But then, suddenly she saw me. Suddenly she _wanted_ to spend time with me.”

Wet in Foggy’s voice. “I’m listening Matty. Keep talking.”

“Choir was difficult. There were a lot of noises. A lot of other kids standing close. The organ made my ears feel like they were exploding. And I was good at copying singing, but I didn’t know how to actually sing. I messed up a lot. The more I messed up, the less time she wanted to spend with me.” Matt takes a deep breath. “But I learnt. I practised. I got better. She started talking to me again. She took me to performances. She’d tell people how proud she was of me. One time before I was going to sing at this big event, I got sick. She took care of me. She took me back to her room, away from the dorms. She didn’t get another nun to take a shift. She was just nice. So I - I pushed her away. I started showing up late for practice. Talking back. Refusing to go to events. I’m not good at trusting people Fog. I’ve never been good at trusting people.”

“Yeah, I figured that out myself. What with the whole Daredevil thing.” Exasperated fondness in Foggy’s tone. No anger. “But buddy, you can trust us.”

He should. He wants to. “OK.”

***

Thursday night, the men enter his cell.

There’s little reason for the man to do this to him. It’s not like he knows Matt’s been told who he is. It’s not like he knows the real conversations going on behind the carefully worded phone calls, or the conversations that happened using Fiona and Father Lantom as messengers. But there was little reason for him to order the hit on Foggy either.

It may have helped Bubblegum’s public imagine for the short time Baseball Bat was painted as a vicious murderer who could’ve easily threatened a naive college student to rape a man. Or the short time Matt was painted as a violent mentally ill person who probably deserved what he got. But Baseball Bat was already viewed badly after shooting Natasha, dealing drugs, and heading a rape gang. There are people out there with enough common sense to point out there is no justification to rape someone.

Natasha thinks the main reason the hit was ordered on Foggy was revenge, even if the man who ordered it thinks he did it for a different reason.

Sitting cross legged on his bed, Matt turns up the volume of the radio as high as it can go.

“A special announcement for you folks,” the cheery female voice says. “More specifically, a special announcement for you. Hello to the correction officers who just entered the cell of Matthew Murdock. I’d like to inform you that several police officers are on their way to you now. Attempted murder is not a good move guys. You work in a prison. You should know this.”

It’s funny how quickly the men freeze, hearts hammering impossibly fast.

“And for the rest of New York still awake at this hour,” the cheery voice continues. Trish. That’s what Jessica said her name was. Karen lives with her now. From the way they talked about her, it sounds like they’re friends. “You’ll be happy to know that the man suspected of ordering the murders of Mr Murdock, and Mr Nelson, murdering Miss Pearson, orchestrating the conditions that lead to Mr Murdock’s arrest, and multiple other crimes is being arrested as we speak. Captain Darius of NYPD. See tomorrows paper for details. Any of tomorrows papers. This is Trish Walker from Trish talks signing off. Thanks for letting me butt in on your show Johnny.”

Only one of the men’s heartbeats stays steady as the police officer’s footsteps pound into the room, much like the correction officers had pounded into Matt’s cell. Mark’s heartbeat stays calm as there’s the clink of him being handcuffed. He won’t stay in custody for long. Without him pretending to change his mind about the hit on Matt, they wouldn’t have all the proof of what the men were planning.

***

“I asked for their help,” Matt explains to Mark on Sunday when the man leads him to the van that will take him home. He was going to be released on Monday, but his friends argued for Sunday because it’s Tony’s birthday. Bruce is going to make him a volcano birthday cake with dry ice for the smoke coming out of the top, and popping candy hidden inside. He wants Matt to help. Matt can’t wait. “They didn’t know Pearson was planning to give the proof to a detective agency. Once they knew that, they could track her movements and find the proof. Then they had everything they needed to arrest him.”

“Well I’m just glad it worked out.” Mark’s hand is firm on his elbow. Leading him. Not dragging him like he did before. “Hopefully things will quiet down now.”

Change of air currents. Smell of gasoline. A parking area. The prison van will take him to the city where someone can pick him up. Usually he’d be shoved out the gates to make his way to the bus stop, but Mark says a lot of people very high up are embarrassed about how much meddling it looks like the police Captain did in his case. There are communications from Captain Darius to Pearson and Wright that suggest jury tampering at Grand Jury, among other things. He’s getting special treatment. Mark said it in a teasing way this time. Not as an insult.

“We’re going to need to keep the cuffs on,” a male voice says apologetically.

“Really?” Grimace in Mark’s voice.

Movement. A shrug from the man. Another heartbeat in the front of the vehicle. “Orders.”

“OK.” Click sound of the back doors of the van opening. Metal sound as Mark hops up. “Let’s get you in here. I’m sure as soon as you’re off prison property you’ll be able to get rid of the shackles.”

Matt clambers in the back of the van. It smells like the sweat of the hundreds of people who’ve sat here before. A belt around his waist. Cuffs on his wrists attached to it so he can’t raise his hands above his chest. Shackles on his ankles. Solid click slam of the metal doors of the cage in the back of the van.

More footsteps come through the doorway they entered the garage by. A familiar scent. Fisk.

Mark’s heart speeds up. “What’s this?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with I assure you.” Fisk’s heart beats lie. Why is he lying. “I merely requested to see Mr Murdock off. These gentlemen were nice enough to help.”

Two more heartbeats. Correction officers?

Mark doesn’t sound sure. “He’s leaving soon. Has places to be.”

“This won’t take long.” Fisk’s heavy footsteps move to the foot of the van. “Mr Murdock. I congratulate you on your victory. Captain Darius was getting dangerous. I’m glad he won’t continue down the deranged path he was heading.”

Because he was desperate to attack anyone he saw as a threat. Including Fisk. Had he remained Fisk’s supporter, helping him out with his family’s money, it’s doubtful Fisk would have a problem with him. No matter how many people he killed.

“The report mentioned he was taking action to save the young Mr Fletcher.” That wasn’t released to the media. How did Fisk get ahold of the police report? “I’m wondering if you know why Captain Darius had an interest in him. And how the woman Mr Fletcher raped ended up working at his police station.”

That’s something they don’t know, but Jessica and Natasha have their guesses. Old Spice mentioned Bubblegum’s mother taking care of the charges Pearson tried to bring against her son. A job is a pretty nice incentive to stay quiet when you’re unemployed and trying to kick a bad drug habit. Probably some money for her house in the country fund too. Captain Darius’s interest in Bubblegum takes a few more guesses. Darius went to a college close to the one Mrs Fletcher went to. Mrs Fletcher hinted that her husband wasn’t Bubblegum’s real father. Whoever Bubblegum’s father was, she hated him. She warned Matt of the man behind this. Saying “he always gets what he wants.” At college, Captain Darius was a basket ball star, same as Bubblegum.

Mrs Fletcher went to Captain Darius to ask for his help getting her son out of trouble. Natasha thinks she went to the boy’s biological father for help getting him out of trouble.

Not that he’s going to tell Fisk that. Fisk has enough resources. Let him find it out himself. Matt shrugs.

“Well it was worth a try,” Fisk says from the other side of the inner door. “I’m a curious man Mr Murdock. I’m curious about what you’re planning to do now you’re free. I hear a lot has happened in Hell’s Kitchen while you’ve been gone.”

A lot has happened. The usual crime that the police, Jessica, the odd Avengers patrol, and a very formidable savedaredevil inspired neighbourhood watch mostly deals with. It’s the strange murders that Fisk is referring to. Gang members slaughtered. Could be gang warfare. Could be something else. Jessica and Luke are looking into it. Matt will help too, if he can.

Fisk must see something in his expression through the metal barrier because there’s movement of him nodding. Grim note in his voice. “I thought so. You have potential Mr Murdock. As I said before, I can’t leave it unchecked.”

“What-” Mark starts.

Cough sound. Smell of gunpowder. Crack sound of skull breaking. Wet sound. Thump as Mark’s body hits the concrete. No more thumps of the man’s heart beating.

Movement of cloth as the person in the front of the van moves back inside the vehicle. A gun hidden in the front of the van. He hadn’t sensed it.

Matt bangs his bodyweight against the cage door, shutting him in the back of the van. What’s going on? Why did they kill Mark? The restraints on his ankles, waist, and wrists don’t give him much movement. Restraints he’d allowed them to put on him. “What - what are you doing?”

“Business,” Fisk says, as calmly as if there isn’t a man dead metres away from him. “I’m doing business. I lost a big investor when I gave up Captain Darius. His family are what they call old money. A great deal of cash to burn. I might be able to deal with him again now he’s learnt a lesson about loyalty. But in the meantime I need to make some quick profit. And I need to make sure you don’t cause problems now that my previous method for keeping you in check has proved unreliable.”

Baseball Bat and Old Spice. So, Fisk doesn’t trust them to stay loyal to him, so he’s doing what? Selling Matt? Matt rams his body into the cage door. No weakness he can easily exploit. Not tied up like this. He overbalances, tripping over the chains on his ankles and sliding down the door. “Fisk!”

He can’t do this! Matt was gong back to the tower. He was going to be safe!

Slam of the van doors closing. “Goodbye Mr Murdock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for this chapter =
> 
> Usual warped place that is Matt's mind. Prison officer against prisoner violence (including mentions of previous cases of prisoners dying during extractions from cells). Violence and referenced violence. Strong emotions. Attempted murder. Matt's self hate issues. Murder of minor character. 
> 
> As always, let me know if you think something should be added to this list.
> 
> I doubt I'll have the next chapter up before Christmas. I'd estimate the 1st of Jan.
> 
> Tony's birthday cake idea is this: http://pagingfunmums.com/2015/05/21/how-to-make-a-smoking-volcano-cake/
> 
> With popping candy possibly in the chocolate glaze or hidden in one of the layers.
> 
> Here's some info about cell extractions for anyone who's interested: https://www.nytimes.com/2014/07/29/us/when-cell-door-opens-tough-tactics-and-risk.html?_r=0 (To sum it up, they're dangerous, and occasionally overused. Inmates do die, and correction officers can be injured too. Imagine being cornered and dragged out by several people in full body armor.)
> 
> I think someone commented that Matt wouldn't have been sent to prison as he's mentally ill. My research could be wrong (and if so I apologize), but according to my sources him being sent directly to Bellvue (a mental health hospital that's teamed with Rikers) is unlikely. To read more about the sheer amount of mentally ill inmates in Rikers have a read of this: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2013/nov/06/rikers-island-jail-mentally-ill-solitary-confinement
> 
> It's possible he could go there with a lot of luck and pushing from his lawyer and Fiona, but Bellevue (previously mentioned) relies heavily on medication instead of other therapy, which isn't a good combination for Matt. There are also some horror stories about happenings there http://gothamist.com/2016/11/28/bellevue_restraints_report.php and https://www.buzzfeed.com/benhattem/a-beating-at-bellevue?utm_term=.hjXYJ9nX3K#.fpOGz0rgLP which I feel being defense lawyers, they would've heard about. 
> 
> Not that Rikers has a good reputation either (most of the violence I've added in is based on real news articles). Here for example is partial inspiration for the transgender woman who was abused in an earlier chapter: http://www.nydailynews.com/new-york/nyc-crime/gay-transgender-rikers-inmate-raped-guard-suit-article-1.2338788
> 
> But being in protective custody, Matt should've been safe. Hope anyone who was wondering about that finds the info interesting.


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoilery triggers for this chapter.

He needs to get out.

The van lurches under him. A turn. He should keep track of how many turns to get an idea where he is, but there’s not much point. Between panic and dissociation, he’s already lost.

Fisk sold him. Who to? What are they going to do to him?

No. He can’t focus on that or he’ll panic. Take a deep breath. In for five. Hold for five. Out for five. Calm down. Focus.

Gradually his chest stops hurting. Feeling drifts back to his hands and feet. Fiona’s always telling him to focus on the things he can do, instead of what he can’t. It’s difficult to quiet Stick’s yelling.

What can he do?

The van is secure. The cuffs on his wrists attach to a belt around his stomach at the front. Clink of the long chain that joins the belt to the cuffs around his ankles, limiting his movement. He should’ve thought it sounded suspicious when Mark helped him put it on. But Mark said they couldn’t release him through the gates like everyone else because of the crowd. That they’d decided it would be quicker and safer for him if they used prison transport to drop him off where a car could pick him up.

Someone must’ve told Mark he’d need to be secured for transport like they’d do any prisoner, because Mark believed it. Matt believed it too, and…

No. This isn’t helpful. Deep breath. Focus on what he can do.

Tugging his cuffs against the belt, he listens to the sounds. That’s what he was good at when he went to New Delhi to help. The restraints are strong enough to hold him. He can tell. He’s not strong enough, but maybe he doesn’t have to be.

No obvious weaknesses in the handcuffs he can hear, but there’s something about the way the leather belt tugs against him.

He concentrates. The leather has wear to it. Sitting on the floor of the van, he finds the right angle that scrapes leather against leather. He pretends nothing else exists in the world but this task. It’s the only way he’s going to keep the bright panic overtaking his mind.

Slowly, slowly, the buckle starts to come loose behind his back. No sounds from the front of the van that suggests they’ve noticed.

It takes a while and a lot of concentration to use the corner of the metal bench to work the belt loose. Once it’s undone enough to wiggle it down over his legs, he focuses on the chains attached to it. The ankle cuffs are most important. He won’t get far with them hobbling him.

There. A chain in the link that creaks a little differently from the others. Holding it in place with his foot, he finds the right angle. Pulls. This he can do.

***

Talking outside.

“Spare me the details,” one of the men says. Papery sound of money. “He’s in the back. I don’t need to know what you want with him.”

Three men, one woman. One of the men who brought him here is still in the front of the van. The other three are gathered around the back.

“We want what everyone else wants,” the woman says. “Money.And to get that, you invest in what’s popular. Don’t look at me like that. You’re no different than us.”

“Let’s get him loaded.” A voice he recognises. Wright. Seems like Fisk’s recruiting all kinds of people lately.

“Will he cause a problem?” The woman’s footsteps approach the back of the van, along with the other two.

“Him?” Wright snorts. “Do you know what it took to rile him up when that was Captain Darius’s latest kooky plan to control the media? No. He’s harmless.”

“He’s restrained.” Click of outer van doors opening. Then metal against metal as the CO unlocks the inner door. “Even if he had fight in him, he wouldn’t be able to. Let’s just get this over with.”

Matt stays curled up in the corner closest to the doors, heart beating wildly in his chest.

“Get a move on Daredevil.” Cockiness in Wright’s voice. Matt didn’t hit him hard enough. “You’ve got new owners now. We’ll treat you exactly how you deserve.”

Uncurling, Matt swings the heavy leather belt into Wright’s face. Solid whack and stumbling feet as it connects. The belt hangs from his cuffed hands. There wasn’t enough time to get out of both the hand and ankle cuffs. He’ll have to make do with only his feet free.

Spin the other way and the correction officer falls, thump on the tarmac. They’re somewhere? A little outside the city from fresher air and lack of echoing quality of the looming buildings. An off road? No sound of cars nearby.

Stab of pain to his side that sets his bones on fire.

By the time he comes back, he’s twitching on tarmac that smells of gasoline. Right. Don’t get distracted or someone may feel like tasering you.

Smell of hot metal above him from the newly discharged weapon. The woman’s voice. “I thought you said he wouldn’t cause a problem.”

“He shouldn’t.” Rush of air and sharp pain. Wright? Kicks him.

He’s been here before. On the ground. Unable to get up. Curling up tight, he gasps for air. Don’t panic now. Panic later. He rolls to the side, but the cuffs and heavy belt slow him down. Bright fire of pain. His limbs twitch against the ground. More fire that snatches away his plans. More fire that sends his head reeling.

“Hey!” The woman’s voice. “Give that back. You kill him before you deliver him, then the boss isn’t going to be happy. And your new employer will make the mess your old one got you in look like a picnic if you screw this up.”

Hesitation in Wright’s breathing? Hard to tell with his limbs still twitching. “Whatever. I’m putting him in the van.”

“No bruises.” Hard note to the woman’s voice. “Boss wants him ready to show as soon as possible. Got several customers lining up to see him.”

The world tilts. His head swims. Rough grazing against his legs. Being dragged?

Wright grunts at the effort. “What do you think they want to do with him?” “They’ve got the money.” She doesn’t sound like she cares. “What they do is up to them. I told you the boss said we’d need the drugs. They’re in back. Above the seat.”

Matt’s being heaved onto metal by the time his limbs stop shuddering so much. It’s possible to think. What are they doing to him? Why are they doing this to him? What gives them the right? Anger shudders through him, squeezing his lungs the same way the tension left from the taser is doing. The woman’s voice is further away.

Wright’s warmth is close. Towering over him. “You don’t need this, do you? You’ll behave, like you did on the video.”

He’s shifted until he’s lying on his back, metal underneath him. His fingers jump and twitch on his chest. Matt tenses. What?

Plastic against metal as something is placed down. A first aid kit? The drugs the woman mentioned? She did mention drugs, right? He doesn’t remember a click of it being opened. He can’t let himself be drugged, his hazy mind reminds him. Get drugged and it’s all over.

Wright’s hand closes around his jaw. He’s really close. Too close. “You want to know why I accepted Fisk’s offer? It wasn’t because Captain Darius’s increasingly desperate plans cost me my freedom. No. It was because I’m the best person for this job. I know how to handle you. I know just what you really want.”

Hard sound as the metal handcuffs connect with the side of Wright’s head. Hollow metal rattle as the man hits the side of the van, then the floor. If he knew what Matt really wanted, he should’ve seen that coming.

The twitching in his fingers slows to a quiver as he heaves himself into a sitting position, but his muscles are stiff and aching. After shocks of pain spread out from his side.

Get up. Get out. Escape somehow. He needs to figure out how.

Two pairs of footsteps approaching the back of Wright’s van. Gripping the belt and chains attached to it, he fumbles for the half closed door. Shoving his weight against it, it swings open. Smash sound. Male. One of the correction officers that brought him here.

Burnt metal taste scorches the air behind him. He leaps backward just in time. The taser. Now it’s been discharged, he can sense it. His lips curl into a snarl. Anger pounds against his chest. He gets to go back to the tower. His friends. Soft blankets. Safety. They have no right to take that away from him.

Metal click behind him. Matt stiffens. The gun. The second correctional officer. How did he forget?

Hot breath on the back of his neck at the same time as something sharp stabs his upper arm. Limb wrapped around his throat, stopping him from flinching away.

It’s a simple hold. Easy to get out of. But not before there’s a rush of cold in his veins. Panic rises in the back of his throat. What did they give him?

No. Calm. Breathe. Figure out what he can do.

Taking a deep breath, he spins around. The heavy belt knocks against the gun to his side. Clink. Clatter. Skid as it goes somewhere under the van. It hits Wright with enough force to make his footsteps stumble. Then heavy smack against plastic as the taser goes somewhere that’s not tarmac. Softer sound. It landed in grass?

“You son of a bitch!” Heavy shove against his chest that he should’ve been able to avoid. The back of his legs smack against the van, making him fall backwards. His back drags against metal. Someone with angry breath moving him. Wright. Warmth over him. On him. Hands around his throat. “You fucking son of a bitch! Don’t act like you’re too good for this! I saw that video. You’re worth nothing. You hear me! Nothing!”

But Foggy thinks he’s worth something.

Matt’s arms struggle to move, but it’s suddenly hard to tell where they are. He’s sure he manages to get them to push at Wright at least once, but they don’t seem to do much.

“You’re going to earn money. You’re going to do every last perverted thing those people ask. And don’t think you can complain about it. This is nothing to you. Everyone knows you’ve had worse.” Wright’s too heavy. Much stronger than he should be. Or maybe Matt’s just too weak again. “Don’t act like you’re good enough for anything else. It was always going to come to this. If it wasn’t us, it’d be someone else. Anyone who saw the video knows you’re broken. Good for nothing but spreading your legs. When we get you back to your cage I’m going to enjoy teaching you a lesson, just like they did. Just like you deserve. I’m going to-”

Wright’s warmth disappears. Sound he can’t decipher. Then his clothes are being tugged, pulling him upright. Or down? Or sideways? Or spun around? It’s hard to say with his head filling up with cotton.

The sudden influx of oxygen gives him his arms again. He punches. Hard. His cuffed fists hit something that moves away too quick to make much of an impact. Somehow he stays wherever he is, wavering. Anger rushes from his chest to his fists, hitting madly at the nearest warmth.

They’re not allowed to do this to him. If he’s not allowed to hurt himself, then no one’s allowed to hurt him either. Foggy would be sad.

The warmth closes around his cuffs, and he screams and bites. Metal. It hurts his teeth. Vibrates pain through his jaw. Cotton fills up his head. There were drugs, weren’t there? Some kind of drugs?

Voices? The warmth moves away. Another warmth moves close. This one isn’t like the warmth of a used car. This is a person. The other was? What was the other?

He swings his hands at the warmth, aiming for its head. Movement as the warmth does something. Clang of his metal cuffs against - what? The note turns less chaotic. Crisper. Higher pitched than any metal. Except one.

“Matty.” It feels like no one’s called him that in a very long time. Fingertips with no warmth skate over his throat. Gentle.

Matt can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut and flinch away.

Movement as the hand withdraws. Sound of uneven footsteps turning away. Anger falls over the area, like a heavy cloud. “You fucker! This what you call a fair fight?”

Whimpering sound. Wright? This time he really sounds scared.

Fast heavy footsteps. Metal. “Whoa there terminator. That’s a no go until you earn your very special Avenger badge.”

The anger is so thick it feels like a solid thing. As bad as when Wright was on top of him. Matt doesn’t like it. Creaking of metal sound. Struggling. One is all metal. That’s Tony, right? And the other is Bucky. They’re not supposed to fight.

Effort in Tony’s voice. “They’re secure Papa bear, and the puppy is safe.”

“He was going to-”

“I know, but he won’t because we’re here. Stand down Bucky.”

Still too much anger in Bucky’s voice. “They almost-” Fast movement. Clash of strange metal against metal as Tony stops whatever blow Bucky tried to land. High pitched squeal of terror from Wright. “The fucker deserves it.”

“Bucky.” The word comes out croaked and broken. Leaning against something solid, Matt reaches out his cuffed hands. It’s hard to think, but he knows that Bucky shouldn’t be angry. Bucky shouldn’t be talking about people deserving to be hurt.

The anger around him shifts. Feeling of tension in the air. No movement.

Matt tries again, frustration making his voice break up more. “Bucky.”

Sigh before the last of the anger disappears. Bucky’s uneven footsteps make their way close. Warm hand with Bucky’s heartbeat on his shoulder. “Here pal. I gotcha.”

Matt twists his shaking fingers into Bucky’s shirt. The metal, hot plastic scent is tainted with fear sweat and chocolate and vanilla scented cologne. Dressed up for something? The drugs make everything heavy and uncoordinated. It’s getting worse. Tugging him toward sleep. “I - I need help.”

“Well then pal. It’s a good thing I’m here to help you.”

***

“Fisk made a deal with Captain Darius,” Jessica says later that day when Matt’s under his covers and the worst of the sensory overload wears off. “Captain Darius had contact with your rapists sometime after the video came out. We think Mrs Fletcher recognised her son’s involvement and approached him in order to cover it up. Captain Darius used them, the previous victim he helped keep quiet, and any contacts he could persuade. His position made it easy to find people related to the police force with a grudge against you. After all, he was Captain of 15th precinct. He was the one they complained to when their friends or family were dragged away after Fisk.” .

The duvet is heavy above him. Toothless is soft under his head. Soothing beat beat of Foggy’s heartbeat. The world still has too many textures and smells, but the sounds are better. Everything was too loud and too much when he woke from the drugs. Like when they gave him Valium in St Agnes. He thinks he screamed for some of it.

Jessica’s sitting on the other side of Matt’s bed, her feet up. The mattress moves every time she shifts. “We think Rowe started losing confidence in whatever deal Captain Darius offered him after he persuaded Rowe to threaten you outside Barnes’s hearing. We know Pearson went to the station before she died. Romanov looked into it. She found the evidence Pearson hid in the archives where she worked. Pearson must’ve come to get it. Our latest hypothesis is that Captain Darius was there. Either she confronted him, or he figured out she was planning to spill everything.”

“And he killed her,” Matt mutters. The words burn his throat.

“Don’t know we’ll be able to make it stick, but yeah.” Her hair rustles as she turns her head. “You gonna drink something so we don’t have to put up with eyes in the sky bugging us every ten minutes?”

The air in his bedroom is too cold and sharp, but he shuffles out of the duvet enough to grab the bottle of water. The liquid soothes his throat. Bruce insisted on poking and prodding when they arrived back, but the doctor doesn’t think anything too bad is wrong.

“Pearson’s death started a downward spiral. Darius pulled off some pretty half-assed plans by that point. Steering the media was decent, until he saw that the media was describing Rowe as a criminal mastermind after he shot Romanov, and ran with it. Getting the gun off Rowe and setting him up with another shooting wasn’t too stupid. Except for the part where Darius thought we were stupid enough to accept it without digging. So we dug. You in particular dug.”

Finally getting the cap back on the bottle, he settles back against Toothless. All his muscles ache. The over-sized silk t-shirt he’s wearing slips and slides against the silk sheets. Steve helped him change into it when everything got too much. That and a pair of silk boxers. It’s a balm to his oversensitive skin. The giant t-shirt smells like Thor. “The night me and Clint listened to the Fletchers. Someone told Mrs Fletcher we were there.”

“Stark figured that out. Someone tapped into the Avengers com line. Listened to your communications.”

He’s not the best at thinking or planning lately, but that he’s had a lot of time to think since Fisk told him about Captain Darius. “Only grades Captain or above can sign out the Avengers com line.”

“Which solves that mystery. And also why the addict with the dummy bomb along with the other cases that day fit the right criteria for an Avengers alert.” Shifting as she moves down on the bed. Head scraping against the spare pillow. “We think you digging was what made him decide you should be out of the way too. By that point Rowe wasn’t toeing the line anymore. Short proved himself unpredictable early on, when he gave that lousy attempt to cut a deal for himself. Then Pearson’s on her way to spill her guts. What’s to stop Rowe or the others from doing the same thing?” “He told Fisk he wanted them dead.” He remembers that. “All of them but Bubblegum.”

“And this is where he goes one hundred percent wacko. He’s got himself in too deep trying to pull Fletcher out. Now he’s entered into deals with guys who can sink him as well. They know who he is. Only this Fisk guy isn’t playing ball. Rowe, Short, and Vasquez are still alive. They still pose a risk to him. And so does Fisk.”

It makes sense. “Fisk said Captain Darius was behind the riot. It was an attempt on Fisk’s life.”

A pause. “Didn’t I tell you something about telling me stuff so I don’t end up chasing my tail on things I don’t need to?” He’d told them a lot, but nothing about Fisk. At the time it felt like he was protecting them, but that’s what got him into this trouble in the first place, isn’t it? If Tony and Bucky hadn’t found him, no one would even know Fisk was involved. He needs to stop doing that. He needs to really trust them. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Nerves enter Jessica’s heartbeat. “Yeah, well. Anything you can’t tell me out loud, you can text.You know. If you need to.”

That might be easier. This conversation is already dragging at him. But there are some things he wants to know. “Why do you think Fisk sold me?”

“Money. How am I supposed to know how these fat cats work?” The awkwardness disappears from Jessica’s words. “He say anything?” He burrows deeper into Toothless’s chest. The heartbeat isn’t as good as real Foggy, but it’s nice. “Said I had potential.”

“The information Romanov got from Wright suggests Fisk used the money Captain Darius gave him to invest in some human trafficking company. It operates out of New York. Various locations. We only have one that Wright gave us, and it was wiped by the time we got there. My guess is, if Fisk is doing business again, he didn’t want to risk letting Daredevil loose to ruin his profit margin.”

It’s odd to think of someone like Fisk seeing him as a threat. “He was going to use…”

“Text me later,” Jessica says after a long period of Matt trying to find the words and failing. “OK?”

Matt nods against Toothless. It’s hard to convince himself not to go under the duvet again.

“I know all of this sucks to hell,” Jessica says. “But we’re doing our best to set it right. Don’t know if we’ll get Fisk. That guy’s high up the food chain. But we’ve got Wright. We’ve got the other three goons. We’ve got the correction officers who tried to kill you. Vasquez is staying locked up for a long time. Captain Darius and the others are going through the system. And we’re working on taking down the trafficking ring Fisk invested in. At the end of all this, the Avengers are gonna owe me a big fucking bill.”

Turning, Matt buries his face into Toothless.

Jessica’s heart jumps. “Shit. Are you crying?”

“No.” He might be. A little.

“Good. Because from the look Stark gave me before I came in here, you start crying, I don’t think super strength is going to cut it.”

He’d expect the overprotective act from Foggy or Bucky. Maybe Steve. Not Tony. “T-tony?”

“And Barton, Wilson, and Pepper, but I think Stark’s face was the most like an angry goose whose baby was taken. I think he might have an aneurysm if you get a hangnail. Don’t put that on me.”

It’s enough to make Matt laugh, then sob, then laugh again.

“Don’t pull this mental health shit with me Murdock. I’m not stable enough to handle it.” Sigh as Jessica makes the mattress jump. “How do you sleep on this bed?”

It took him a long time to find a mattress this nice. He frowns, the tears disappearing as quickly as they’d come. “It’s comfy.”

“It’s a freaken marshmallow.” Another shift. “I feel like it’s trying to eat me.”

Matt lifts his head from Toothless to scowl at her. “Comfy.”

“Whatever Murdock.” A silence that’s more comfortable. “I’ll be over every now and again to fill you in on what’s happening. I know these clowns keep things from you. And if they coddle you too much, tell me. I’ll beat some sense into them.”

Fast graceful footsteps outside. Rapid fast heartbeat. Clicking of paws. More heartbeats. It saves him from trying to explain that sometimes he likes people looking after him. He sits up in bed just before the door bursts open.

The mattress leaps. High pitched excited whining. Horrible snuffling snorting as Lucky does his best to sniff every inch of him. Flop as Lucky rolls over on bed beside him. Rustling of sheets being pummelled by the fast moving tail.

This is real, he thinks as his hands find soft fur and happy heartbeat. He’s in the tower. He has his duvet. He has Lucky. This is real.

“Matt!” Clint sounds as happy as Lucky does. “I really really want to squeeze the life out of you right now. But you’re bruised, and y’know, personal space. So here’s a basket of kittens instead.”

It is a basket. Wicker woven together. Large handle at the top. Three mewing bundles of fur inside. Their little bodies feel so much bigger than before. They move more smoothly under his fingers. Something plastic behind their wriggling forms. Familiar. Ducky.

“We cleaned it up like you asked,” Clint says quickly. “And Foggy’s been looking after it. But he thought it might cheer you up or something.”

His lungs close up tight against any air. “Is Foggy really OK?”

“Well he took one heck of a hit, or a bullet, or however that saying goes.” Clint’s voice turns thoughtful. “Is there a saying about a bullet? Because I feel that would fit this situation much better.”

“He’ll be fine Murdock.” Jessica huffs. ‘He’s already back to his old annoying self. Watch it. You’re spilling kittens.”

The kittens are fine. There’s no trace of the sickly smell they had before. Whatever infection is gone. They’re better. Foggy sounds like he’s better. And that doesn’t make sense, because how can something so wonderful happen in this world where everything goes wrong? “Foggy’s OK?”

“The doctors Sir hired confirm he’s stable,” Jarvis’s voice says from the bedroom ceiling. “They’re pleased by his progress.”

It doesn’t make sense. “Foggy’s really OK?”

***

Foggy’s really OK.

Matt stands in the doorway of the med room, Lucky leaning against his legs. His body shakes from the elevator. The elevator is never nice, but this time the trapped feeling after the door closed was hard to handle. It sounded too much like the van doors closing.

And Foggy’s OK.

“Hey bud.” Foggy sounds tired, but otherwise alright. His breathing only takes on strain when he moves. “Can’t offer you a plush stomach pillow. My chest is probably a bad idea too. But I can offer one well padded shoulder.”

Shyness washes over Matt as he shuffles closer to the bed. The idea that nothing good happens wars in his head with a voice that pipes up ‘of course Foggy’s OK. Foggy’s amazing, and promised he’d never leave.’ He has to feel for the edge of the bed, the sound-waves bouncing oddly off the glass, and his senses still fuzzy from the drugs.

Silk sheets. He picks at them as he crouches on the mattress beside Foggy. Foggy’s strawberry, warm, safe, happy scent is tainted by antiseptic and the copper tang of healing wounds. No sickly smell. That’s good. Foggy’s heart beats close, more real than Toothless’s. All of this is so much more real than talking on the phone. “Hi.”

Smile in Foggy’s voice. “Hi Matty. How are you feeling?”

He’s not sure. “Nothing, and a lot.”

“Sounds like a weird place for your head to be.”

It is. His heart sings over Foggy being so close. Fears huddle in the back of his head, whispering things that might go wrong. Everything that’s Wright, Fisk, the van, _them,_ sits as far into the shadows of his brain as he can manage. Every time his thoughts skate past him, they turn numb or pained. Sometimes both sensations at the same time.

“I’m going with Karen and Romanov,” Jessica says. “They have the right idea.”

Frustration in Foggy’s voice. He’s not supposed to sound like that. “There has to be a better way.”

“The Punisher has the best knowledge of the gangs operating inside New York. We find him, he might be able to help us find the group Wright was taking Murdock to. You really want a trafficking ring like that operating in this city?”

“No, but.” Foggy grinds out a noise that sounds angry. No. He shouldn’t be angry. “That guy could kill you or Karen. He’s a mass murderer. And even if you did find him, the Avengers should be locking him up, not working with him.”

“That’s why we won’t be around for a while.” Jessica’s footsteps walk to the foot of the bed. “Can’t risk Mr Apple Pie stopping us in the name of truth and justice, and whatever crap he’s spouting now.”

Foggy’s presence is warm and solid. “The Punisher?”

“Don’t worry about it Matty.” Foggy’s hand finds his own. “The others are dealing with it.”

“The Punisher was the guy killing gangs in Hell’s Kitchen,” Jessica says. “We thought it was gang warfare until Candy and Karen started digging into it. Turns out it was one man. He’s popped up in various places around New York, but mostly seems to haunt Hell’s Kitchen. Some people got it in their heads to protect Hell’s Kitchen when you went out of commission. We think he’s one of the more crazy specimens.”

The thought of someone killing people because of him makes his stomach turn. But no. That’s not right, is it? He didn’t mean for it to happen. “Is it my fault he killed people?”

.Foggy’s hand squeezes his. “Buddy. No. It can’t be your fault, remember?”

He remembers, although it’s harder to believe. “I didn’t choose for that to happen. I didn’t know he’d kill people. So it’s not my fault.”

“Good job Matty.”

Warmth glows in his chest at the pride in Foggy’s voice.

“Romanov’s infiltrating gangs to see what they know.” Jessica’s feet pace at the end of the bed. “Candy’s researching The Punisher to see if we can track him down. Me and Karen are looking into both angles. Luke’s mostly eye candy. You’re welcome to join if you want Murdock.”

Groan as Foggy shifts upright. “You’ve got to be kidding me! First you drag my sister and Karen into this. Now you’re trying to drag Matty into it, after what he just went through? What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Matt shifts nervously. Foggy shouldn’t be so angry. Lucky jumps onto the bed beside him. It’s calming to stroke his fingers through the dog’s fur.

“What he went through is exactly why he might want to help.” A bite of something not far from anger in Jessica’s voice too. “Fisk sold him to people who were probably going to rape him again. You said yourself that sticking any crimes on Fisk is a long shot. But we can take down his cash flow. If Murdock wants a part in that-”

“He doesn’t. He needs to slow down. This isn’t some dumb action movie where trauma has no consequences. He needs to catch his breath for once, so he can recover.”

“You can’t decide everything for him. You can’t keep treating him like he’s some goddamn kid.”

He’d grabbed his satchel when he’d dressed into sweatpants and hoodie. Fingers shaking, he digs into it. The PECS book is there. Tearing off a sentence strip, he flicks through the pages to find the squares he needs. ‘I want.’ ‘Tower.’ ‘Safe.’ ‘Soft blanket.’ ‘Foggy.’ He shows it to Jessica. Lucky half crawls into his lap, whining.

Strange pattern in Jessica’s heartbeat like she’s unsure. But the anger disappears from her voice. “Got it Murdock.I’ll keep you updated.”

It’s easier to speak without the anger clogging up the room. It’s harder to explain. “I trust you to take care of that. Just make sure everyone stays safe?” “Candy will only do research.” Promise in Jessica’s voice. “And I’ll do my best to keep the others from getting their asses kicked.” That’s the most he can expect in this dangerous world. He wishes he could do more, but his body keeps quivering, and his mind feels strange. “I think I need to rest.”

“Excellent idea Matt,” Foggy says, sounding relieved. “Bruce said the sedative would take a while to fully leave your system, especially since you took it on top of the xanax this morning. How about you eat something then take a nap?” Matt shakes his head. “I think I need to rest.”

***

There’s van doors closing. Fisk. Cough of gun. Baseball Bat. Thump of body hitting floor. Then he’s awake, gasping with Anna’s heartbeat wrapped around him.

“Honey.” She smells like mints, soft wool, Christmas, comfort. “Sweetheart. It’s OK. I have you. You’re safe.”

She’s a little shorter than him, while his Dad was giant. She’s soft, while his Dad was solid muscle. But when she holds him tight like this, it feels like the times in the hospital when he’d wake up panicking, and his Dad would hold him a while. There’d been times after they’d gone home that he’d wanted that comfort again, but hadn’t known how to ask for it. “Mark died. They shot him. I couldn’t save him.”

Foggy’s hand on his back. “Buddy, it’s not your fault.”

“I know.” But that doesn’t make all the guilt go away, because “I couldn’t save him.”

“Sweetheart.” Some of Anna’s warmth leaves as she pulls back. Lucky nuzzles in, trying to take her place. “Do you think you could tell us what happened?” “Jarvis can record it for Brett and Jessica.” Foggy’s hand rubs circles on his back. “That way we can cut down on at least some of the statements you’ll need to make.”

That would be good. And this isn’t as frightening as the rape or what happened in prison. He doesn’t think he went away as much. So maybe he’ll remember more.

He tries.

He starts at the end with Wright, and realises he’s skipped the beginning. He can’t remember when the beginning was. He talks about Mark being shot, then entering the van, and realises that’s the wrong way around. It takes several goes through before he finds the rough order of events. Even then he has trouble remembering if he said anything to Fisk or stayed quiet. The time between being in the back of the moving van, and Wright on top of him with hands around his throat is a chaotic blur.

But he tries.

***

“Please don’t go.”

Anna brushes Matt’s hair away from his eyes. “Sweetheart…”

“You can’t go.” Matt grips her arm. “You’ll get shot. Then Foggy and Candy won’t have a mom anymore, and you’ll be gone. I don’t want you to go.”

“Honey, Jessica’s right. You’re not going to be safe with that organisation out there.They tried to take you away once. I won’t let it happen a second time.”

Matt’s not sure why her joining Jessica, Nat, Candy, Karen, and Luke is any different to the others. Only that Anna’s spent yesterday and last night soothing him after every fitful nightmare, trying to tempt him to eat, telling him stories about Foggy that made the man’s voice go squeaky with embarrassment.

She can’t leave. The thought of her leaving sends bright panic sparking in his chest. There’s the ghost of warm flesh with no heartbeat under his fingers. Mash of bone and flesh where a face should be. His fingers looking for familiar features, but not finding them. “You shouldn’t put yourself in danger because of me.”

“Honey. This is something I need to do.” The hand he’s not gripping smooths through his hair. Cups his cheek. “You’re my boys. I love you both so much. I’d walk to hell and back if it would keep you safe, but I’m also doing this because it’s the right thing to do. You understand that, don’t you sweetheart?” He does, because he’d be going too if he was ready for that. But not Mom. She can’t leave. “Someone else can do the right thing. I don’t want that. I just want you to stay with me.”

Foggy sighs at his side on the bed. “Don’t you see what you’re doing mom? Way to layer on abandonment issues over abandonment issues.”

Long pause in which Anna strokes his hair. “Lie back down sweetheart. I’ll stay until you fall asleep again.”

Matt does as he’s told, pulling the flopped Lucky closer so he can have his and Foggy’s heartbeats beating through him. “Not going to sleep ever.”

An hour later he wakes up from another restless sleep, and Anna is gone.

***

“Foggy and Marci worked on the victim impact statement we used at Vasquez’s trial,” Fiona says on Tuesday when Matt’s under the duvet on Foggy’s bed. “If you want to write one from your point of view for Short’s trial, there’s still time.”

“You don’t have to deliver it,” Foggy says, out of breath. He needs to walk a certain amount every day using his cane, or Sam tells him off. He gets more exercise than Matt lately. The mattress jumps as he eases himself back on it. “Steve’s happy to read it out, like he did the other one.”

The duvet and heavy blanket keep the world out. He hasn’t moved from under it at all except to go to drink or go to the bathroom. “Old Spice hurt me again.”

Jump in hers and Foggy’s heartbeats. Fiona’s evens out the fastest. “Can you tell me when?” “The prison. Fisk let him.” The heaviness he’s felt since Anna left pushed all other emotions away, but now there’s a spark of anger. Fisk shouldn’t have done that.

Fiona’s words are slow and careful. “Was Dennis Short the one who left that hand print bruise on your face?”

Matt shakes his head against Toothless. Clint had brought the dragon from his room this morning, saying Nat thought he might need it since he hadn’t eaten yet. “That was Baseball Bat.”

“Can you tell me what happened?” A lot happened. The words stick in his throat before he finds some he can say. “Fisk gave them five minutes with me, because they killed someone for him. They wanted to prove to him that they could control me, so he’d keep them alive.”

Foggy’s breath starts, stops. “What happened buddy?” He wants to tell, but he doesn’t have the words. Lucky snuffles the edges of the blankets, trying to lick his hair. Gross.

Shuffling as Fiona looks through her bag. Sounds of paper, plastic, smell of soft toys. Plastic placed on the silk sheets. “Here’s the PECS cards we used last time. Do you want to try using them?”

He pulls the sheet under the duvet. A few sheets of plastic with cards velcroed to them. They have Baseball Bat’s and the other’s names. Body parts. Sexual and other acts. Lifting himself onto his elbows under the duvet, he tears a sentence strip off, then another one. The first one says ‘Baseball Bat’ ‘hit’ ‘me.’ The second one says ‘Old Spice.’ ‘touch’ ‘me’ ’genitalia.’

It makes his hand shake to push the sentence strips out where Fiona and Foggy can see them.

Foggy’s heart hammers, but there’s no reaction from Fiona’s heartbeat. “Can I take a picture of this?” “Yeah.” His voice comes out weak and quivering, so he tries again. “Yeah. OK.”

Clicks of the pictures being taken. “Are you able to tell me any more right now?” He pushes the plastic sheets out from under the duvet. “No.” No more please.

“That’s fine. You did very well telling us this. I think you might need to do something calming after that. What do you think?” He guesses. “Maybe.”

“What do you think might help you feel better?” Difficult question. He knows what he wants to do. “Rest here.”

“You’ve been resting a lot under your duvet,” Fiona says. “Perhaps it’s time to try something else. How about eating something?” Matt grips Toothless’s leg. “No.”

“OK.” No anger in Fiona’s voice. Only a trace of the worry that beats in everyone’s heart when they try to get him to eat. “Can you tell me why you don’t want to eat?” He’s not really sure. “It’ll taste bad.”

“How about oatmeal?” Fiona asks. “Or your safe soup. Or is there another food that’s less likely to overwhelm your taste-buds?” It’s a hard question. He tries to imagine himself eating his safe watered down chicken soup, and his stomach recoils. “Too tired to eat.”

“You’re tired because you’ve been through a lot of stress, and you’re not eating,” Fiona says calmly. “Eating would make you feel less tired.”

He flops back down on top of Toothless. Even this conversation is too much effort.

Frustration in Foggy’s breathing.

“Matt?” No frustration in Fiona’s voice. “How do you feel about the fact that you can go this long without eating? Do you feel proud?” He hadn’t noticed before, but a little. It’s nice to have one part of himself he can control.

“Sometimes,” Fiona says. “People who feel out of control of themselves or their lives can try to exert control in other ways. You’ve done that to a certain extent with self harm. You feel like your emotions are out of control, so you try to control them by harming yourself. I think you’re doing the same thing with your eating habits. It might’ve started as sensory sensitivity to certain foods and lack of appetite, but I think you’re starting to use it as a means of control. What do you think?” It makes sense. He’s always liked it when he feels in control of himself, and there are so few parts of himself he can control lately. He’d thought eating disorders were for people who wanted to be thin. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to lose the muscle he’s spent so much time building up. But he likes that he can go this long without giving into the urge to eat. The mind controls the body. That’s what Stick always said.

He thinks about eating, and it feels like giving up. “When they hurt me in the prison, I didn’t fight back. Not once. I froze, and when they told me to do something, I did it. I didn’t have any control over my body.”

“That’s a typical reaction,” Fiona says. “You’d be very unusual if you did manage to fight back when you met your abusers again. People who’ve been through traumatic events react in certain ways when they’re triggered by anything that reminds them of the event. Abusers are a million triggers all in one place. Everything about the way they act, speak, smell, move, can be a trigger. Freezing is a common reaction. As is obedience, otherwise known as the fawn reaction. They’re survival mechanisms set up in your brain to keep you alive.”

Matt’s hand clenches tight over Toothless’s leg. “But I didn’t fight back.”

“I read something on the PTSD forum Sam told you about,” Foggy says quietly by his side. “A woman was raped a second time. She was afraid something was wrong with her because it happened again. This guy replied to her. He was a marine at the top of his fitness the first time he was raped. He’d been raped more times since then. He said something that really resonated with me. He said that whatever you did during the attack was the right thing, because you’re alive. Matty, whatever you did was the right thing because you’re alive, and that’s all that matters.”

***

“I can’t seem to figure this out,” Ned says once he’s done with his phone call to Steve. The mattress moves as he sits next to Matt.

Foggy’s away in another room with Bruce and the strange doctor. The strange doctor came in here yesterday, and Matt might’ve growled at him a little when he made Foggy make a pained sound.

“Son?” Ned asks. “Do you think you could help me with this car of yours? I can’t figure out how it slots together.”

Odd. Ned can fix anything. Putting together a car puzzle shouldn’t be a challenge. Matt shuffles closer to Ned’s side, poking his hands out from under the duvet. Two pieces of plastic placed in them. Parts of the undercarriage. The patterns on the underneath make it easy to find where they slot together.

“Sorry son.” Ned moves closer. “Could you show me that again? I’m not as quick picking things up as you youngsters.”

Pushing the duvet a little off his head, he shows Ned again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers =
> 
> Scary place that's Matt's mind. Eating disorders and some of the thought process behind them. Violence. Horrible people saying horrible things. Terrible views of rape victims (you've gone through it once, why are you making such a fuss about a second time). Physical assault and threats of sexual assault. Strong emotions. Emotional and other flashbacks to death of a parent. Mention of people (and sex) trafficking. Poor self esteem. Slightly warped memories of events. 
> 
> As always if you think something else should be added to this list, tell me in a comment.
> 
> Notes =
> 
> For best understanding of the scene where Anna leaves, notice that he's having some level of flashback about his father's death and issues surrounding that. If you're interested, go back and read that scene again and keep in mind that he's talking to his dad as well as Anna. 
> 
> It's common to have emotional flashbacks when you go through a similar situation to a past traumatic event. As an example: someone whose parents were overly critical feels the same anxious feelings as an adult when someone offers criticism. Or someone verbally abused feels the same fear as an adult whenever anyone raises their voice at them. 
> 
> The next chapter should be up around the 15th of Jan.


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoilery trigger warnings for this chapter.

The elevator shuts them in.

“I’m OK dad, really,” Foggy huffs out. “Just point me in the direction of the nearest chair, and I’ll be fine.”

Swooping feeling in Matt’s stomach as the elevator goes down. It adds to the nerves caused by the confined air around them. He holds the mug protectively to his chest. Clint brought it sometime while he was under the duvet, and Ned helped him finish it.

Lucky helps by leaning against his legs, but he wishes he brought the duvet and Toothless too.

Jerk as the elevator stops at the right floor. The screaming tension in his body lets up when the doors whoosh open. Sound of someone clattering around the kitchen. Sam. Several tiny heartbeats racing around the communal lounge, down the corridor to the other rooms, and back. The kittens.

He follows Ned and Foggy’s slow progress to the table. Creak of wood as one of them pulls out a chair for Foggy to sit in. Harsh breathing from Foggy. It’s not nice to hear his friend so worn out by simple walking, but the doctors say he’s getting better. He doesn’t need around the clock medical care anymore, so will move back to his flat and the other residential floors. Which is why they’re here. Matt couldn’t let Foggy leave the medical floor without him, no matter how much he misses the duvet.

“Matt.” Relief in Sam’s voice. “What’re you having for lunch? I’m in a baking mood, Go crazy.”

It smells like Sam already has. There’s apple pie. Cinnamon roll. Chocolate oat cookies. Chocolate chip pancakes. Chocolate brownies. Something that smells very similar to Anna’s mac and cheese in the oven. More things that Matt can’t name. He picks at his hoodie. “Not hungry.”

“We’re working on it,” Foggy says. “So far he’s turned down everything.”

It’s nice to feel the leather couch, his soft blanket hung on the back of it. At least, it feels like his blanket, but it doesn’t smell much like it. Unscented laundry detergent, like someone washed it, then left it there. He wrinkles his nose. It’ll take a while for it to smell right again. Another soft a little way down the couch’s back. A jumper. Smells like Steve.

“Clint says he left the champagne chocolates down here?”

The relief is gone from Sam’s voice. “I’ll get them. What can I get you two?”

“Ugh,” Foggy groans as Matt sits beside him. “This choice is so much harder now I have the stomach size of a mouse.”

It’s not that small, but it does mean Foggy has to eat little and often. Everything has healed enough that he can eat most things, just not that much of them. His stomach will expand over the next several months, so hopefully things will get back to normal. More than anything, Matt wants Foggy happy and healthy.

Ned and Foggy end up choosing mac and cheese, and they eat in a strange silence while Sam moves around in the kitchen area. The man’s heartbeat is faster than it should be. Is he stress baking again? Why?

The little wrapped champagne chocolates go in the bag that crinkles. Clint said it’s a shiny bright gold. He ties it up with a ribbon, then places it in the mug. Good. Done.

He waits until Ned starts up a conversation about cars that Foggy tiredly hums along to, then sneaks away from the table to swap his hoodie for Steve’s soft jumper. Hopefully Steve won’t mind. His own hoodie smells too much like fear and other kinds of sweat. Steve’s scent is soothing.

When the elevator doors shut around him again, Steve’s scent helps.

***

“Mr Murdock,” Jarvis says when the elevator jerks to a stop. “Sir may not be the best destination. Perhaps I can take you to Captain Rogers or Master Thor instead?”

Matt shakes his head. “I forgot to give him his birthday present. I need to give it to him.”

“I’m afraid Sir is exhibiting rather disturbing behaviour. I’ve been unable to speak reason to him.”

Everything’s been broken up and confused since he came back. No one tells him his routine for the day. There is no routine. It’s all chaos. He hasn’t met with Tony, Bucky, Thor, or Nat since he came back to the tower. Steve, Sam, and Bruce only come for short visits.

Whatever Matt did wrong, he needs to make it right. “I need to give Tony his birthday present.”

“Mr Murdock-”

The doors are closed. He can’t get out. He kicks the doors and it’s a surprise to feel the metal of elevator instead of wood. Suddenly he feels very small and confused. He wants his Dad. His chest aches at how much he wants his Dad here.

The doors open.

He stumbles into the wider space, unfolding his cane to tap tap his way down the corridor. It takes a while to remember which room is Tony’s workshop, even though it’s straight ahead. The door clicks open under his hand.

Crash inside. Another crash. Tony’s angry breathing. He’s throwing things. Glass?

Matt hovers at the top of the stairs. The mug and chocolates suddenly feels like a very insignificant gift.

Happy chirp of some robot as it whirs forward to? Scrape of glass. Cleaning up the mess Tony made. An angry yell. Smash of glass, followed by a hiss of pain. Smell of blood.

Folding up the cane, Matt clings to the banister, feeling his way down the stairs. Is Tony hurt? “Tony?”

Yelp of surprise. “Jesus pup, a little warning. Hey Jarvis, why no warning?” Every word is slurred.

“I tried to Sir,” the voice from the ceiling says. “You were otherwise occupied.”

Matt makes it to level ground, Lucky by his side. “Are you hurt?”

“Fucking super senses!” Some kind of wide movement. “Jesus. For the billionth fucking time, I’m fine!”

But he only asked him once? Matt leans against the metal rail. “I can do first aid,”

“Puppy, just go back to whoever was babysitting you before me.” Tony sighs. His feet make their way to a workbench. “My blood alcohol level is at least 0.15 away from responsible adult right now.”

What happened to make Tony so mad? Is it the same thing that made Sam stress bake, and everyone else sound off? A terrible thought enters his head. Tony’s birthday was Sunday, the same day he had to save Matt. Tony was going to have a big birthday party with lots of fireworks. Matt and Bruce were going to make a volcano birthday cake. “Did you - did you need to start your birthday party late?”

Smack of Tony dropping onto a chair. “No pup, I cancelled it.”

The mug seems even more pathetic. “I’m s-sorry.”

Long pause in which Tony’s heart does strange things he can’t interpret. “C’mere pup. You have much experience with a needle?”

Matt nods eagerly. “I can stitch wounds. I’ve done it since I was seven.”

Odd skip fluttering to Tony’s heartbeat. “You better be good. This is my hand we’re talking about.”

Plastic clatter and smell of antiseptic on one of the whirring robots. It makes its way over to Tony with the same excitement the other has cleaning the glass. Plastic against flesh as Tony takes the first aid kit from the robot. “Good boy.”

Matt finds another chair next to the bench shortly before walking into it. Placing the mug on the side, he gets to work opening the kit. Excitement at being able to do something to help bubbles inside him. Maybe this will help stop Tony being so upset about the party. He doesn’t think Tony can kick them out. Not with the apartment in his and Foggy’s names, but he doesn’t want Tony angry at him.

Scrubbing his hands with an alcohol wipe, he sets to work cleaning the wound, listening for glass fragments. Nothing in the wound. His hands eventually find the suture kit. Good. Now he just needs to get the needle and-

“What the fuck are you doing!?”

Matt blinks, the needle threaded and ready between his fingers. “Stitching you up?”

“Yeah.” Movement of Tony shaking his head. “No. I’m not into the pain thing. Local first pup.”

Oh.

The local is a small needle syringe with a bottle. How much is he supposed to use? Where around the wound is he supposed to inject it? Bucky used it for his feet, but he’s never used it himself. “I don’t - I don’t know how to use that.”

Tony sighs, sounding decades older than he usually does. “You’re so fucked up. How in the hell did I think I could fix you? OK, Jarvis, tell birdbrain two point O to get his feathered butt down here and take over. Pup, you - pup?”

Matt’s up the stairs and through the door before Tony can say anything else.

***

It takes until the elevator doors open on the gym level for Matt to notice his stowaway.

The tiny heartbeat sits on the opposite side of Matt from Lucky. It meows questioningly when the doors whoosh open.

Smack, smack, smack of Steve hitting the heavy bag, again, again, again. Anger chokes the air, even from this distance.

Matt shakes his head at the cat. The doors close.

“Might I suggest returning to the communal lounge?” Jarvis asks. “Mr Wilson was informed that Sir is injured, and both Mr Nelsons are worried that you haven’t returned from Sir’s floor yet.”

Another shake. His chest feels too tight. “Want Bucky.”

“Sergent Barnes isn’t fit to receive company.”

The last time he heard Bucky was when he was rescued. Bucky was there before he fell asleep, but not when he woke up. Nat’s left the tower. Foggy’s too quiet. Tony’s angry. So’s Steve. Bruce, Clint, and Pepper always sound distracted. Even Ned seems off. He needs to check Bucky.

“I need deep pressure Jarvis.” His body quivers. The words shake. “Bucky made me feel safe. Foggy’s tired. Everyone’s distracted.”

A pause. “I’m afraid Sergent Barnes won’t be able to fulfil that function for you.”

“Then maybe I can help him?” Matt presses his hands against the doors. It takes a lot of effort not to bang and scream for them to open. “Please Jarvis. Please.”

Swooping feeling of the elevator moving upwards. Then whoosh of elevator doors opening. Familiar smell of the corridor outside his and Foggy’s, Sam’s, and Bucky and Steve’s apartments.

Bucky’s is the furthest on the left. He skims his hand along the wall. Past Sam’s door. To Steve and Bucky’s. Click of it opening under his fingers. Lucky and the kitten follow him inside.

“Bucky?” Heartbeat from Steve’s room. Steady and slow, but not slow enough for sleep.

Matt knocks the door a couple of times, before pushing the door open. It takes a while for his senses to understand what’s going on. Bucky’s on the bed. Steady in out of the man’s breathing. The sound-waves reflecting off his form suggest he’s sitting up on the side of the bed. “Bucky?”

No answer. No answer when he tries again. A dozen times. A dozen more times.

“Bucky?” He asks again, sitting beside him on the bed. “Can I touch you?”

“As long as movements are slow and non threatening, Sergent Barnes appears not to mind touch when in this state,” Jarvis says from the ceiling. “It is uncertain whether it helps him or not, but sometimes Captain Rogers will attempt contact.”

It takes a lot of fumbling about before he finds Bucky’s tablet on the bedside table. Dragging a chair in from the kitchen area, he sets the humming device on it, fiddling until he thinks it’s where Bucky can see. “Jarvis. C-could you put ponies on this?”

“It would be my pleasure Mr Murdock.”

Ponies are playing by the time Matt drags the silk covered duvet from Bucky’s room. Clambering onto the bed beside Bucky, he places the duvet around both their shoulders. “Are you thirsty Bucky?” Matt asks, trying not to let his voice tremble.

Bucky makes no move to take the bottled water he’d found on the nightstand. He’s made no move at all since Matt found him.

“I hav-haven’t heard this one before.”

No response.

Drawing his knees to his chest, Matt curls in tight against Bucky’s side. The contact only makes the gaping hole in his chest feel more painful.

***

By the time Steve comes, with Tony’s footsteps behind him, he’s shuddering.

“Matt.” Steve’s hands are warm on the sides of his head. His voice is there only for Matt. Not distracted or frustrated like everyone else's. “Matt. You’re OK.”

Foggy hisses with pain when he hugs, and he’s not strong enough for deep pressure. Ned doesn’t hug much, and Matt doesn’t like to distract him from Foggy. Anna’s gone, and everyone else only comes when he’s under the duvet. The concern in Steve’s voice is an offer he’s not strong enough to ignore.

Steve’s arms catch him as Matt slips off the bed. No change in the man’s heartbeat as Matt practically lands in his lap, wrapping his arms tight around his neck, burrowing as close as possible. Steve folds him in a solid hug. “Want to tell me what’s making you upset?”

Gripping the back of Steve’s t-shirt, Matt shakes his head. It’s a difficult topic to explain with his throat all choked up. What he knows is he doesn’t feel safe. Everything is big and scary and confusing, and he really really needs to feel safe right now.

“OK.” Steve rubs his back. He doesn’t make him let go. “Slow breaths. You’re doing fine.”

“Listen pup.” Less slur to Tony’s voice. Something sobered him up. “One thing you’ve got to know about me.is twelve percent of the things I say are brilliant world changing genius. Everything else is snark and poor judgement. Yes, I know it’s a shock that someone with intelligence as vast as mine could show poor judgement-”

“Tony.” Steve sighs into Matt’s hair. “Just tell him you didn’t mean it.”

“Oh I meant it. He’s fucked up.”

“Tony,” Steve growls.

“But aren’t we all fucked up in our own special way,” Tony continues quickly. “That’s not some vague message about life. I mean, literally everyone who lives in his tower is fucked up. Bruce with his giant anger problems. Bucky and his good little soldier episodes. Thor’s family. Natasha’s overuse of emoticons. Your depressing ability to angst over everything. Wilson’s fetish for safety protocols. Nelson’s worrying. Birdbrain’s…everything. And my alcoholism, narcissism, nightmares, anxiety attacks. You get the idea. Really, puppy having an inner two year old with a shit childhood is just another flavour of fucked up to add to our charming household. I mean, we haven’t had regression before. Well, except Barton, but I think that’s more him being a human disaster than anything else.”

“Tony. You know we’re not supposed to talk about it.”

Lucky licks his fingers. Gross. “Didn’t have a shit childhood,” he mumbles into Steve’s shoulder.

Tony’s warmth crouches next to Steve’s. “Really? You and terminator let him swear?”

“I swear Tony. If my arms weren’t occupied.”

“OK. Backing off.” A pause. “What about you pup? Do you still want to be a part of our home for damaged superheroes?”

Why is he asking? Unease twists in his stomach. “You can’t tell me to go. We own the apartment. And Foggy loves me. He won’t kick me out. And I’m really sorry you had to cancel your party. But it wasn’t my fault. Maybe I should’ve known something bad would happen, but I didn’t, and I let myself be chained up. I asked why and M-mark said it was the rules. Be-because we had to use prison transport to get away from reporters. And - and I should’ve asked more questions, but I didn’t. And I don’t know why I didn’t fight back hard enough, but I did try. And if you want to be mad at anyone, you should be mad at them, not me, because it wasn’t my fault.”

A long pause full of hammering heartbeats. Surprise in Tony’s voice. “What the actual fucking hell Murdock? I’m not going to kick you out. For one thing, I’d have child services up my ass-”

“Tony.” Steve shifts so Matt’s sitting more sideways. The arms stay around him. “I know you’re drunk, and you, but please show a little judgement.”

Tony’s hand rests on Matt’s shoulder. “Puppy. I am never going to kick you out. I want you here. Two year old you. Or whatever passes for adult you. That’s never going to change. Not even if you change. I still wear the bracelet you gave me. I love my new mug. I’m going to teach you piano, and even if you’re shit at it, or you start annoying me, I’m still never going to kick you out. Got it?”

Matt nods. Tony’s heart beats truth.

“Hey, I might even let you grow up to become a lawyer,” Tony adds. “Just don’t become a philosophist. I’m not sure we could continue speaking.”

“And Tony didn’t cancel his party because you were kidnapped,” Steve says. “He cancelled it because none of us could concentrate after you were hurt. We almost lost you. It scared all of us.”

“Fucking Jones was the one who picked up something was wrong.” Anger enters Tony’s voice. “They must’ve anticipated someone would be watching. The video was sent out on a delay, so it was altered before I got it. Neither me or Jarvis spotted anything wrong. It was Jones noticing the body language of this guy didn’t match up with how behind schedule his delivery seemed to be. Then we noticed the lag, and by that time you’d already gone. Took us ages to find you. If Jones hadn’t been there, by the time we’d noticed the lag, you’d have already swapped vehicles with no cameras around to see. It was close. If I’d just seen it sooner-”

Dropping his arms from around Steve’s neck, Matt twists the man’s t-shirt between his fingers. The arms around him are good. They block more of the world out than they should be able to, like the duvet and weighted blanket. “Can’t be your fault, unless you make an informed decision.”

“He’s got you there.” Steve’s chin rests on Matt’s head. A nice weight to add to the pressure of the hug.

“Still, I’ll learn from this. Jarvis already knows how to read some body language. Applying that to analysis's of security footage is going to be more difficult, but it’ll be worth it. Could really help in battle.”

“And you shouldn’t throw glass.” The kitten clambers onto Matt’s lap, claws digging painfully into his thigh. “You can throw ice instead.”

“That would be a good idea for barefoot science,” Tony says at the same moment Steve hisses “You had him around broken glass?”

Hugging one of Steve’s arms to make sure the pressure stays, Matt lets himself relax against the broad chest. It feels safer than the duvet, as long as Steve doesn’t let go. Steve will keep the outside away. “Is Bucky going to be OK?”

“He hasn’t done this for a while,” Steve says. The words vibrate under his ear. It triggers a long ago memory of when his Dad used to sit close and read stories. “Not for months. When this did happen, it was usually because he did something that reminded him strongly of being the Winter Soldier. He was angry on Sunday. Then anxious. Then today he just sat on the bed and stayed there. He’ll react to simple direct orders, but nothing else. We don’t like to give him too many of them. He’ll come out of it eventually. We think it’s a coping mechanism from before. Some level of dissociation. Like you have sometimes, or how sometimes you need to hide under a duvet.”

“And you were angry because Bucky is sad?” Matt guesses.

“Partly,” Steve says. “And partly because I’m angry at the people who tried to hurt you. I’m angry that some of them might get away with it. I’m worried because you’re not eating, and you’ve lost a lot of weight. I’m worried because you’ve been sad, like Bucky’s been sad.”

It’s easy to imagine a world in which Steve is angry because he’s worried about Bucky. It’s harder to imagine one where he’s angry because he’s worried about Matt.

“We’re spelling things out are we?” Tony asks.

“Matt finds it harder to understand emotional and social concepts no matter what behaviours he’s showing.” Movement against him as Steve shrugs. “Best to be clear. It’s a good habit to get into anyway. Just don’t be patronising.”

“But I’m so good at it.” Smile in Tony’s voice. “OK kiddo, spelling it out. We’re all fucking worried that you haven’t eaten yet. Is there a smoothie combination Jarvis hasn’t suggested yet? Do you have a hankering for white truffles flown in from Northern Italy? Those chocolate dates Wilson got you? Name it and I’ll get it for you.”

“Even Thor’s worried about you,” Steve says. “That’s why he hasn’t come to visit. He doesn’t want to stress you out any more. He knows you’re still getting used to him.”

“Can’t eat.”

Steve sighs against him. “Matt…”

He can’t control how he feels. He can’t control how he acts. He can’t control the nightmares, or how much pain Foggy is in, or how so many people are gone, including Nat who isn’t at full strength yet. Steve’s going to let go, and that vulnerable scared feeling is going to come back, and he can’t do anything to stop that happening. This is one thing he can control.

***

“No. No. No.” Matt whines, clinging to Foggy’s sleeve.

“Buddy, I’ll only be gone half an hour tops.” Grunt as Foggy leans forward on Steve and Bucky’s couch to stroke Matt’s hair. “This is just a check in with the doc. I’ll be back in time for the movie. Then you can tell me what we’re watching.”

Foggy can’t leave. His stomach quivers at the thought of Foggy leaving. He needs him here. Why does Foggy want to leave him?

Steve’s footsteps walk over from the bedroom where Bucky still sits. Warmth of him crouching beside Matt. “Matt, can you tell me what you’re worrying about?”

Emotion clogs up his throat, and there are no words.

“I’ll be with him,” Bruce says from behind the couch Foggy’s sitting on. “And so will Ned. Jarvis will be monitoring. No one will hurt Foggy if that’s what you’re worried about.”

That’s part of it, but not all. Nowhere is safe. No one is safe. So the strange doctor can’t be trusted, no matter how much they say Tony and Jessica checked him out. The other part is more selfish. Foggy is safety and warm sunshine. Recently, whenever he walks away, a part of Matt can’t stand the loss of that safety.

“Come on Matty.” Foggy pries gently at his fingers. “Let go.”

Matt lets go.

***

“No.” Matt snatches the dinosaur back from where Clint’s teasing the kitten with it. His skin prickles with nerves. Tightness in his chest that makes it hard to breathe. “It goes - it goes there.”

Clint smells of second hand smoke and cologne from whoever he was hanging out with. Rasp to his voice that suggests he’s been doing even more talking than usual. A tired sluggishness to his movements. Alcohol tinges his clothes, but not his breath. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

The dinosaurs go on the carpet in a group. The Jenga blocks stack around them. When it’s done, Matt will be able to place his hands over the wood, feel the solid barrier keeping everything bad out. It’s a poor substitute for actual safety. The relief it provides is fleeting. And too often he’ll panic and worry one of the dinosaurs isn’t under there. Then he’ll need to take it apart and check. Put it together again. Take it apart and check. Every time he dismantles it, he reminds himself how easy it is to destroy the safe place he’s trying to make.

Steve had taken him down to the gym, and praised him for every punch he could land on the heavy bag. Taking out that anger was good. Cleansing. But now the tension is back.

Thump as the tiny kitten lands on the Jenga blocks. Smash as all his work gets ruined. Nothing is safe. Nothing is ever safe.

He gets up quickly, and there’s a scramble as Lucky does the same. Foggy won’t let him hurt himself. He needs to be alone, then maybe he can make this tension stop. Some kind of movement from Clint.

Then there’s familiar warmth of Foggy in his way. “Buddy, let’s go calm down in Bucky’s room, OK?”

Anger spikes, sudden and fierce. “You left me!”

“Guess this explains the cold shoulder you’ve been giving me.” Nervous sounding smile in Foggy’s voice. “But Matty, it was just a doctors appointment. I was always going to come back.”

Matt shakes his head. “No. The doctors said you were going to leave if the infection… Foggy. You promised you’d never leave. Everyone else left, but you promised you’d stay.”

“And I promise if I have anything to say about it, I’ll stay.”

Foggy is wonderful and amazing and will never leave him. He wants to stay, even though Matt isn’t good at anything, because he loves Matt. That’s true. But Foggy almost did leave. That makes the feeling of unsafe blare louder in his head. What if Foggy goes away and says he’s going to come back, and never does. What if Mom never comes back, and she dies while trying to do something for Matt, like his Dad did? What if Nat or Candy or Karen or Jessica or Luke get hurt? What if-

What is he doing?

He blinks, clenching his fists into Steve’s too large jumper to ground himself. He’s winding himself up. He needs to calm down. “Foggy. I don’t think I’m doing good right now.”

“Yeah buddy.” Wet in Foggy’s voice. “What do you think we should do?”

Complicated question. Not something he needs when his head is filled with buzzing nerves. But he’s been in this situation enough times that he can take a guess. “Sit down. Slow breaths. Heartbeat. Soft blanket. Lucky. Calm down.”

“Good job.” Fabric against cloth as Foggy sits down on one of the couches. Bucky and Steve have two couches, but one is shaped like two couches stuck together in a v shape. Foggy sits on the normal couch. “Sitting was totally on my agenda too.”

The other people in the room are moving slower than they should. Probably watching. Matt shifts self-consciously. “The dinosaurs. I need to - they have to be…”

“It’s OK Matty.” Softness to Foggy’s voice. “Do what you need to do, then come here.”

His hands shake as he puts the dinosaurs away in the treasure box, including the one the kitten is trying to drag away. Lucky’s paws follow him to the couch. Huff sound as the dog climbs up, setting himself across Matt’s lap.

It’s good to lean against Foggy’s side, even if the man can’t hug him properly. Bucky and Steve’s heartbeats are good, but nothing calms him like Foggy’s. He tangles the soft blanket in his hands, humming under his breath as the others get settled. They wouldn’t usually eat up here, but it doesn’t seem right to go downstairs when Bucky’s up here.

“You can tell us anything you want Matt,” Pepper reminds him as she sits on the other side of Foggy. “Or you can ask about anything that’s worrying you.”

It takes until almost everyone is seated before Matt finds the words to ask if someone linked to people who hurt him could get into the tower, like Devan did.

“Not on the residential floors,” Pepper says, and she, Tony, and Jarvis explain why that will never happen again.

They watch Kiki’s delivery service, because out of the choices (that movie, How to Train Your Dragon, or Spirit Stallion of the Cimarron), that’s the one movie he knows at least Steve likes as much as he does. It’s good to lose himself in a story where he knows things will turn out fine in the end. Kiki’s not perfect. She gets scared. She fails a lot. But she keeps trying, and eventually she succeeds.

Halfway through the movie Sam gives him a plate with a cookie on it. “You don’t have to eat the cookie, but if you can I’d like you to taste a few crumbs to see where your taste-buds are at. If you can eat anymore, then great. If you can’t, then just put it on the side when the movie finishes.”

The crumbs have too much flavor. They overwhelm his taste-buds like they did the first time he tried them, but they also make something flash bright in his brain. The chocolate tastes rich and gooey and nice. A gnawing longing from this stomach. The flavors are too strong to eat, but for the first time in a long while he actually feels hungry.

The fact that he wants something makes him feel even more unsafe. Things he wants can be taken away. Putting the plate on the back of the couch, he curls up small next to Lucky, resting his head on Foggy’s thigh.

Jump in Foggy’s heartbeat. A hand rests lightly on his head. “Guess you’re over the looming thing Matty?”

Not quite, but this is Foggy. Or maybe the need to be close and safe is somehow overriding the looming thing. He’s not sure.

Foggy’s fingers card slowly through his hair, and any thought that this might be a bad idea vanishes. Hair pets are the best. “What’s going on in your head Matt?”

A lot. All swirling around so he can’t make sense of it. So all he’s left with is stabbing pieces of emotion that _hurt._ He points in the direction of Bucky and Steve’s television instead. “I like Jiji.”

“Jiji is a most amusing feline,” Thor says from the v shaped couch. “And rather more articulate than other felines I’ve met.”

“Wait.” Tony stops tapping at his humming device. “Pikachu, does all speak work on cats?”

“To a rudimentary extent.” Thor’s voice has a hushed quality. Maybe for Clint, whose heartbeat is slow in sleep. Then again, Thor’s voice often seems to hush around Matt. “Tis more meant for creatures with a verbal language. I get no more information than a simple observer of body language would foretell.”

It’s another safe topic to cling to. Lucky is snoring softly against his chest, but the cat… “What’s Tuna thinking?”

Foggy gives a huff of laughter. “I take it the kitten smells like tuna?”

Matt nods. A lot. Like the kitten rolled in it as well as ate it.

Small smile in Bruce’s voice from where he sits between Thor and Tony. “That explains what happened to the tuna I got out for lunch.”

“The kitten is launching a devious plan.” Sound of Thor’s long hair moving as he leans forward. “She is most curious to discover the source of the mice she hears under Friend Tony’s blanket.”

Confusion in Tony’s voice. “What are you talking about Doolittle? There aren’t any mice under -” Sudden movement. Hiss of pain. “Ah fuck! Those are my feet you dumb cat!”

***

_The dream starts how it always starts: with terror._

_He’s done something wrong. Something terrible. Something unforgivable. He didn’t behave. He’s rarely sure of what he did wrong, just that he’s about to be punished for it._

_The giant’s hand sweeps out of nowhere, grabbing his arm. The wall of sound hits him. So loud that he can’t make out the words. The face glares down at him with hate. Thin lips screaming. Spittle hitting him. Eyes that tell him he’s the worst little boy in the whole world. There’s no one more disgusting or worthless than he is._

_Pain as he’s dragged down a hallway. Sound of door opening. NO. He’ll be good. He promises._

_He stumbles into the closet. Falls down. “You’re fine sweetheart.” That’s what his Dad would say. “Brush yourself off and get up back up.”_

_Only his Dad’s not here. The door slams. Click of the lock. It’s dark, and he’s scared. Breath hitching, he pushes himself off the floor. Clutches Honey’s tattered fur tight to his chest._

_“Don’t worry,” he whispers to Honey. He doesn’t want her to be scared. “Dad will come pick us up. Then we’ll go home.”_

_The dream twists. Dark shadows move in the back of the closet._

_Honey speaks with the sobbing voice of the girl he’d saved that night. “He’s here.”_

_The shadows make the shape of a figure. Tall and looming. Familiar smell. Cheap beer and cigarettes. Familiar voice. “Told you that you shouldn’t have crossed me.”_

_Fear fills him up, until there’s nothing left._

_Baseball Bat’s hand grips his throat, taking him by surprise. “Tell me you’ll do anything I want. Tell me!”_

_He nods as rapidly as the fingers squeezing his throat let him. Anything. Just please, please let him go._

“Matty. Pal. You’re OK.”

It takes a long time for the terror of the dream to fade enough to recognise the warmth sitting in front of him, or the familiar voice. “Bucky?”

Warm hand on his shoulder with Bucky’s heartbeat. “I’m here Matt. I gotcha.”

It’s good to burrow close into Bucky’s heartbeat. To feel a cold arm and a warm one fold around him gentler than anyone else does, like he’s something special. There’s less oil and hot plastic to Bucky’s scent than there usually is. He hasn’t been fiddling with machinery or spending much time with computers. But there’s still the smell of strange metal, and that stuff Bucky puts on his hair, fresh aftershave, traces of Steve’s sharp soap scent. All of it tells him safety in the same way Foggy’s and Steve’s scents do.

There’s something he needs to ask, but all the emotions have eaten up his words. Pulling back, he signs ‘alright?’

“Just tired and fucking starving.” Tight emotion in Bucky’s voice. “Woozy too. Gonna need Jarvis to remind me what I’m doing for a couple days until I get back in the swing of things.”

From the leather against skin, and sound of Lucky’s panting, Steve has hold of his collar. “Matt, why don’t we go make Bucky a midnight snack?”

Bucky needs food. He can do something to help. He gets to his feet quickly, and the world spins into nonsense. He falls back to the mattress.

Worry in Steve’s voice. “It’s OK Matt. Let me help.”

They make oatmeal and cookie because Steve says they need to make something Matt might eat. Three bowls. One for each of them. Matt sits between them at the small table when they’re done, shoulders hunched, and arms folded around his middle.

Steve’s hand rests on his back, almost as gentle as Bucky’s touches. “I’m not going to force you to eat it Matt, but I’d like you to at least taste it. How many spoonfuls you have is up to you.”

He’d expected a fight or yelling. Blinking, he reaches for the spoon. Spends a few moments stirring it, feeling the texture through the metal. “Stick used to buy me food. All my favourites.”

Bucky’s movements still. “Yeah?”

“Sometimes he’d put stuff in them.” Turning over the spoon so most of the contents falls out, he puts it in his mouth. It’s the oatmeal he likes. No weird ingredients. Filtered milk without any blood in it. Sam rarely uses nasty tasting chemicals in his cookies.

“What kind of things?” Caution in Steve’s voice.

“One time I told him my Dad used to buy me a cupcake on my birthday. No matter what he was doing, he’d come home with a cupcake, and I could tell he’d spend a lot of time choosing the right one. Every year it would be a different flavour. And it would have a ridiculous amount of frosting, and sprinkles, and all those little sugary sweets kids love.” Matt huffs a laugh that dies somewhere in his throat, making it hard to swallow. “On my eleventh birthday Stick came back with a cupcake. And - and it had frosting. A lot of it. And I was so happy. And it was stupid. He’d put things in my food before to make sure I was tasting it first like I was supposed to. But it was my birthday. He said to eat it then get back to training, and I - he mixed lye into the frosting. It hurt.” Both Bucky and Steve’s hearts speed up. Their muscles go tense. Angry.

Steve’s hand moves from his back to cup the back of his neck. “He hurt you. He shouldn’t have done that.”

Matt turns the spoon over and over. Picking oatmeal up, dropping it back. “I was an impatient kid. I’d rush everything. It was the only way he’d get me to stop and pay attention.”

Bucky’s hand rests on his shoulder. “He hurt you,” he says firmly. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

***

“I don’t know what to say,” Matt says on Wednesday when he’s sitting next to the sand-tray. “I know Old Spice’s trial will be over soon, but I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t need to say anything.” Fiona’s on the carpet with him. Close enough to feel the warmth of her body. “We have my statement saying how badly this has affected your mental health. We have Foggy’s statement saying how this has affected your life. If you want to add something, you can. If not, you don’t need to.”

He pulls Lucky onto his lap. “It’s affected everything. I’m a different person. I can’t even remember how to act like the person I was before. Fighting crime. Being a lawyer. All of that is so far beyond my reach. Sometimes I feel like I need to be held forever, or I hide figures, or I need things to be simple and easy. Sometimes I act irrational, and I don’t realise until afterwards. I’m scared all the time. I just want to hide somewhere safe, but there’s nowhere safe, and it’s painful to always be this scared. Everything hurts. My head, my chest, my limbs. I can’t ever get away from it, and it won’t ever stop. I just want it to stop. I want some rest.”

Scribble sound as she writes something down. “Have you had any more thoughts about suicide?”

“I’m tired.” Leaning on the dog, he takes a moment to feel the steady rise and fall of Lucky’s chest beneath his hands. “I’m so so tired. I only get an hour or two of sleep at a time, and that’s with someone close, and Toothless, and Lucky, taking my pills, and the weighted blanket. Foggy, and Steve and Bucky are going to take night shifts with me. I didn’t even need to ask. They knew I’d need it, because I’m so clingy during the day. Too long without someone right by my side and I panic. Too long without touch and I get twitchy. Whenever Foggy walks out the room, it feels like the world is ending. And I keep needing to do things, like hide the dinosaurs, or line them up, or sort through the treasure box, because the world is big and terrifying, and if I don’t narrow my focus to one simple repetitive task, I feel like I might explode. I just want to rest. Sometimes I feel like killing myself is the only way I’ll do that.”

“I’m impressed.” More scribbling. “You’re gaining a much clearer understanding of how your mind works.”

“It won’t last.” Matt gives her a self depreciating smile. “Soon I’ll be back to speaking in ways that make people worried about me. They think I’m regressing.”

“Does that worry you?”

“I’m not sure I’d know it was happening if no one mentioned it.” Matt shrugs, tracing Lucky’s ribs. “I’m trying not to over-think my words before I say them, like you said. I just act in a way that feels right, while trying to remember my cognitive biases, and not work myself up. Sometimes I’ll know I’m acting odd, like when I choose to talk about Toothless in order to avoid a harder topic. But most of the time it just feels like the normal way to act.”

“Steve thinks it’s linked to your worry that people might judge you. He’s noticed that several of your larger possible regression episodes happen after you think one of your friends might be angry or disappointed in you. Like after you discovered Karen watched the video. What do you think?”

“I remember being scared Karen would hate me and wouldn’t want to be my friend.” The memory stings. Lucky turns in his lap to nuzzle his fingers. “And yesterday I thought Tony was angry at me.”

“My theory is that at least some of the possible regression episodes are linked to your fear of abandonment.” Fiona’s voice turns softer. “Are you still scared Foggy’s going to leave you?”

Matt shakes his head. “Not as much. I mean, for some reason he still loves me. I know that. He wants to stay. But now I get even more anxious when he leaves. I don’t know. Before I accepted that he was leaving, and I deserved it. Now a part of me gets angry with him that he’s leaving me. Part of it is being afraid he’ll get hurt again, but another part is angry that he doesn’t want to be around me.”

A pause. “I’ve spoken to several therapists regarding attachment issues, and there’s something interesting that happens with several of their clients. At some point in their therapy, their clients start idolising them. Seeking their approval and attention. Forming a kind of small child to parental figure attachment. When the therapist had to cancel a session or take an absence, the client would sometimes feel like a young child abandoned by a parent. Often this can cause the client anxiety. But the good news is this stage takes place shortly before a secure attachment forms. Your separation anxiety could actually be a sign that you’re feeling more secure in your relationship with Foggy.”

That’s good, except… “Foggy’s already talking about looking forward to working on the legal floor again. He can’t stay right by my side forever.” Even though he wants him to.

“There’s a therapy called theraplay,” Fiona says. “It’s had high success rates in people with attachment issues. It’s mostly used in children and teenagers, but I’ve heard it being used in adults too. I’d bookmarked it as something that might be useful for you later on in therapy, but trying some of the exercises now might improve things between you and Foggy. It’s also very good at raising self esteem, which is something I know you have difficulty with.”

He gestures toward the sand-tray, still filled with Avenger figures hidden under objects. “More play therapy?”

“The tactile nature suits you.” Smile in Fiona’s voice. “And you enjoy therapy more when it’s active. So yes, some of theraplay involves games. Theraplay works on the theory that if a person’s needs aren’t met when they’re younger, parts of them can remain emotionally undeveloped. It’s used in a great many older children and teenagers with attachment and other issues. The games are designed to meet you at your underdeveloped emotional age, while not being too inappropriate for your chronological age. As you can imagine, the therapy is used for a huge range of ages and issues, so there are different games we can try if you really hate some. I’d like you to attempt the games first though. And be prepared for some of them to be overwhelming.”

“Is that what’s happening with me?” It’s soothing to listen to the steady rise and fall of Lucky’s breathing. “Is that what makes me regress?”

“If I were to point to one reason, I’d be being dishonest with you. We can guess at possible reasons. I think your fear of abandonment is causing emotional flashbacks to when you felt abandoned as a child. That could be part of it. Another theory that fits well with you is one I mentioned before. There’s a theory that when we go through trauma as a child our emotional development stops. We grow up chronologically, and intellectually, but emotionally the adult stays underdeveloped. Often you wouldn’t notice. Intelligent individuals can consciously or unconsciously create tactics or a shell persona to hide many of their differences from the world. But when that individual goes through trauma, they can lose control of their intellectual self, revealing the underdeveloped emotional side. When this happens, it can seem like they’re acting younger, when in fact they’re revealing a part of themselves that didn’t grow up.”

There were times even before this that he felt lost and alone. He remembers hanging around with Foggy’s friends at college, or in study groups. Someone would make a joke, and everyone would laugh. Or they’d start a quick conversation, back and forth. And Matt would stand there, and try not to look as confused as he felt. Not every conversation went over his head, but enough of them did to make him wonder if there was a secret place beyond even his hearing that they went to learn this stuff. Or to wonder if Stick was right, and he was so different he’d never fit in.

Maybe there’s a reason why, different to the one Stick told him.

“But I don’t want you to worry too much about regression,” Fiona says. “Not at this stage. Society doesn’t allow adults many healthy coping mechanisms, especially adult males. Some of your key coping mechanisms such as physical contact, play therapy and even the open communication we’ve been working on could be viewed as regression by some people. A coping mechanism is a good one if it works, if it doesn’t hurt anyone, and if it doesn’t stop you progressing. That’s all I want you to concentrate on until you’re more stable.”

He can do that. Playing with Lucky’s fur, he nods.

“I’ll type up the things you told me about Dennis Short.” More scribbling. “Then you can decide which parts you want to add to your victim impact statement. Before we finish for today, is there anything the others can do to help you be less anxious?”

Everyone’s distracted lately. They’re worried about him. That’s what they say. It’s strange to think of so many people worried because they care about him. “I’d like a routine again. And Nat used to help me with my cognitive biases, but she’s gone. I think I’d like some help with that.”

“I’ll let them know.” A few moments of scribbling. “Is there anything you think would help you eat?”

Clenching his jaw, he shakes his head.

The scribbling stops. “Let me know if that changes. We’re not your enemy here Matt. We want to help you.”

He knows. He’s trying to let them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers =
> 
> Eating disorders, low self esteem, possible age regressive behavior, claustrophobia, separation anxiety, flashback/nightmare of child abuse, flashback/nightmare of physical and emotional abuse from Baseball Bat / Rowe. Mention of child abuse. Stick is a dick. Strong emotions. Catatonia type behavior / extreme dissociation from a character not Matt. Drunk character showing destructive behavior. Tony needs to learn what tact is.
> 
> As always if you think something should be added to this list, tell me in a comment.
> 
> Notes =
> 
> For the record I don't think of Clint as having age regressive behavior. I consider him having a complete disregard for social norms. If he feels like playing with those toys (with sound effects) he'll do it. The best way to infiltrate that gang is to wear a dress? 'Sure Nat, where'd you leave my makeup?' He also has impulse control issues and as Tony points out, can be a bit of a human disaster. There's also an occasional class clown aspect to his behavior where he'll play up his human disasterness to get some laughs. 
> 
> Bucky's behavior shows similarities to automatic obedience sometimes seen in catatonia. From http://misc.medscape.com/pi/android/medscapeapp/html/A1154851-business.html "patients with catatonia may demonstrate automatic obedience, meaning the performance of tasks at the command of the examiner even though the tasks are inappropriate or dangerous." Note: I haven't done too much research into this aspect of catatonia so can't say if this is a better way of describing what happens to Bucky. However you label it, it was a coping mechanism to be able to go away in his head while still following some orders.


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoilery trigger warnings.

“Ineedadoughnutandtwolemoncakes,” Matt says, eyes tightly shut.

Confusion in Stacy’s voice. “Sorry darling, can you repeat that?” Matt flushes, picking at the hoodie he borrowed from Bucky. It’s Friday the 10th of June. He’s picked up cakes or coffees three times since coming back to the tower. Every time went fine because someone wrote down his order for him, and he didn’t need to speak. Clint mentioned they sell doughnut and lemon cakes at the coffee bar on Fridays if you arrive early enough. This one should’ve been fine too, except for one little detail.

Clint’s handwriting sucks.

Taking a deep breath, Matt signs ‘cake.’ Talking is still difficult in places he gets worked up, like anywhere with lots of people.

“What’ll it be hon, teacake or lemon cake?” Good. Stacy understands sign language.

His small computer and PECS are in his satchel. He hasn’t used them as often lately, so he’s not used to getting them out. He thinks he can do this. Concentrating on the warm weight of Lucky leaning against his legs he whispers “Lemon.”

“How many do you want sweet?”

He holds up two fingers. “And - and.”

“Coffee?”

He nods. Kind of, although Bruce wants tea. Holds up four fingers. “And…”

“Something else hon? We have doughnuts today?” Weak with relief he nods. Holds up one finger. “Um… sprinkles if there’s…”

“That’s two lemon cakes and a doughnut with sprinkles.” Friendly smile in Stacy’s voice. “Who are the coffees for darling?”

He signs ‘Clint’ ‘Pepper’ ‘Bruce’ ‘Foggy.’ Does she know Foggy?

“That’s a black coffee strong enough to kill you, a doppio, a matcha green tea, and kona for the coffee snob. Anything else hon?”

She does know Foggy. He shakes his head.

“You need a hug?” Clint asks once he gets back to the elevator. “Come on, bring it in.”

He kind of wants to shove Clint for not realising Stacy wouldn’t be able to read his handwriting, but a hug is probably a better idea. Clint smells like coffee and beeswax. He’s not as nice to hug as Steve, Bucky, Foggy, or even Ned or Anna. He thinks Clint might try to protect him if someone tried to hurt him, but there’s not that instinctive feeling of comfort and safety he gets from the others.

The hug still helps calm him.

“Coffee,” Clint whines as soon as the elevator opens on the communal floor.

“Cat,” Matt counters, heading for the kitchen table.

Clint sighs and moves to get a container to put the cakes in. Tuna steals everything.

Putting Bruce’s and Pepper’s drinks in the microwave away from curious kittens, Matt grabs Foggy’s kona coffee and doughnut, taking them to the large couch.

Fluttering pages of Foggy putting the newspaper down. He takes the goods. “Today wasn’t a cafeteria floor day, what’s the occasion?”

Matt grunts, flopping down on the couch. Curling up tight into Foggy’s side, he rests his head on the man’s shoulder. Lately physical activities take their toil on him, but emotional activities are always worse.

“This is operation Tony’s birthday present phase one. Bucky helped him break down the steps,” Clint says through what sounds like a mouthful of coffee. “Tuna. Those aren’t your cakes bro.”

“Thought the mug was Tony’s birthday present?” Foggy asks.

“Nah.” Click as Clint locks the cakes away. “That was only something quick so he could plan the real present. Apparently a mug with ‘world’s best benefactor’ on it isn’t up to the Murdock standard.”

Foggy takes a sip of coffee. Pleased sound. “Tony loves that mug. And everyone who sees it steals it to admire the handwriting. You really butchered the word ‘benefactor.’ It’s adorable.”

The mug had been Matt’s idea. Something he could do before Tony’s party. Matt being the one to write the words was Clint’s idea, saying Tony would love it, which for some reason seems to be right. Matt had insisted on getting Ned to write a translation beneath the words. He can’t trace the letters like he does when writing on paper, so god knows how horrible the writing is.

“Here Matty.” Tap on the back of his hand. He turns it over. “Take a bite, and I’ll eat the rest.”

These are the rules. People give him food, and he has to at least taste it. The rules might change if he keeps refusing to eat, but until they do, this is what happens.

He takes the smallest bite he can manage and hands it back. “Lard, hydrogenated palm oil, sugar, preservatives. Gross.”

Smile in Foggy’s voice, but worry in his heart. “Mmmm hydrogenated palm oil tastes good.”

Matt huffs a laugh against Foggy’s shoulder. “Can’t - can’t believe you’re wasting your tiny stomach space on a doughnut.”

“Hey, you’re the one who got me the doughnut.”

“Cause you were complaining about not having any left. Were talking about going to the Legal floor, cause they always have doughnuts.” His body feels so heavy. Having Foggy close makes him feel warm and safe. More tired than he already is. “Gonna rest, OK?”

“You’d have more energy if you ate a meal for once.”

Matt’s eyes blink open. There’s a tension in Foggy’s voice he doesn’t like. “Foggy…”

Foggy sighs. More tension before his body relaxes. “Just rest. Then you can go onto phase two or whatever.”

“Still phase one.” One of his hands moves from Foggy’s sleeve to find the soft of the blanket. “Gotta deliver the coffees.”

***

“Bruce filled me in.” Pepper’s shoes clip clop their way into the elevator. A flash of her paper, blueberries, hot plastic scent as she takes the coffee Matt has waiting for her. Hopefully she doesn’t mind that it’s reheated. “I’ll control Tony. You three do what needs to be done.”

Whoosh as the elevator goes down to Tony’s workshop. “Five seconds,” Jarvis says calmly. “Four seconds. Three seconds.”

Steve has problems using the elevator too. He doesn’t like being trapped, like Matt doesn’t. Somehow he’d noticed the problems Matt was having. Jarvis shows him the number of seconds he has until the elevator reaches its destination, and now Jarvis does the same for Matt out loud.

‘You don’t need to handle your problems alone,’ Steve had reminded him. ‘You have people who want to help.’

And Matt knows that. He’d decided in prison that enough was enough. He needs to share his problems and let people help him. Unfortunately that’s a lot harder to do in reality. It’s not like he’s hiding things. He just forgets to mention them.

“Two seconds. One second. Doors opening. I hope your mission is a success Mr Murdock.”

Matt smiles. “Thanks Jarvis.”

Thankfully there’s no crashing glass this time. Instead there’s buzzing of machinery that stops as they descend the steps. “This is happening, is it?” Matt frowns, clinging to the banister carefully until he’s on level ground. Tony isn’t appropriately enthusiastic for someone about to get a birthday present. Bruce and Pepper said he’d like it.

Flesh against fabric sound of Bruce patting Tony on the arm. “It’s happening. Just go with it Tony. You’ll like the results.”

***

Tony might be a little OCD, just not in the neat orderly way.

The man’s heart beats worry as Matt digs through his main workbench. The place is chaos. Tools thrown haphazardly in drawers, or strewn on the top. Bruce and Pepper say he has a lot of difficulty finding things he needs.

It’s soothing to pull things out, Bruce telling him what they are, and think about how he’s going to organise them so Tony can find them better.

“Why don’t you put them back in the right places?” Matt asks, finding a screwdriver that Tony admits should be in his toolbox, not the workbench.

“Dunno.” Movement as Tony shrugs. “Lots of things to do, and not enough time to do them in. It’s easier to chuck things in a drawer, and then the next time you might as well chuck them anywhere. Sorting it all out takes time I don’t have.”

“The bots are good at putting away some things,” Bruce adds. “But not others.”

Being so disorganised is an odd thought. If Matt did this, he’d spend so long looking for things, he’d never get anything done. “Would plastic inserts help?”

A pause before Tony mutters “I thought I was supposed to be the genius.”

“I think they’d help a lot.” Smile in Pepper’s voice. “He uses them in other parts of the workshop, and those areas rarely turn into the train-wreck this one does.”

“You heard the puppy Jarvis.” Gesture from Tony. “Fire it up.”

Most of the drawers end up with plastic inserts with spaces cut out to fit each tool. Each drawer ends up with a label, one of the robots following Matt as he fixes each one in place. Bruce and Tony help decide where things should go. Clint’s job seems to be following Matt around and dealing with the sharp tools. Pepper splits her time between organising people, and distracting Tony when the man’s heart starts beating too much worry. Maybe he doesn’t like people touching his things?

It takes hours before each drawer in the workshop is organised and labelled. There’s extra storage on the walls and on top of some of the benches. Change is difficult, so Matt tries to draw inspiration from the neater parts of the workshop when thinking about ways to tame the wilder sections.

“I think it’s done?” Matt says, picking at the sleeve of his borrowed hoodie. Was this a good idea? Does Tony like it?

His stomach twists as Tony’s too fast footsteps make their way towards him. He can’t help thinking of the things Tony said last week when he was drunk, about Matt being fucked up. A soft pat to his head. It takes him by surprise. Tony’s not one for touching him. “Good puppy.”

***

Foggy’s gone from the communal lounge by the time Matt gets there.

It’s irrational. He knows it’s irrational, but he can’t stop the panic spreading over him at the thought of Foggy being gone. Where is he? Did he leave the tower? “Jarvis, where’s Foggy/”

“Mr Nelson is currently meeting with his physiotherapist on the gym floor.” A pause. “Would you like me to tell him you’re on your way?”

Heat rises to his face. Is he that predictable? “Yeah.”

***

“Matty!” At least Foggy doesn’t sound annoyed that Matt’s following him around. “You’ll be pleased to know I’m an excellent patient.”

Matt uses his cane as he makes his way over to the day bed set up by the heavy bags. It’s not like he needs it, but it gives him something for his hands to do. Or one of them at least. The other grips the front pocket of Bucky’s hoodie. There’s an empty scared feeling in the middle of his chest, and he really could use a hug.

Are hugs allowed in front of strangers?

“Matt.” The physiotherapist sounds like she has a nice smile. She’s Matt’s physio too, but never directly. She’s only talked to him once to check if it was OK to speak to Bruce and Clint about his progress, and watch recordings to check his arm is doing fine. “It’s nice to see you again. How’s the silicone patch doing?”

The bite wound has a silicone plaster over it. He has to wear it all day for a long time. Then if the tissue is still raised and obvious in a few months, he might get steroids injected to flatten it. “I hate it.”

“Sensory issues,” Foggy says quickly. “He’s been bitching about how sticky and uncomfortable it is. But he still wants to try it.”

“You could switch to only wearing it at night if you’re finding it too uncomfortable.”

Folding up his cane, he shakes his head.

“Mr Stubborn wants to try the whole haul. Right Matt?”

The cane goes in his satchel. Whoosh of the elevator doors opening and Clint’s footsteps coming out. He said he’d follow Matt once he raided the fridge.

“Excuse me a moment.” Rubber against wood as Foggy uses the cane to walk over to Matt. Hushed voice. “Hey buddy, you’re drifting a little. Are you OK?”

No. There’s that clenching pain inside his chest that makes him want to curl up and hide. Slowly he signs ‘hug.’ Is that allowed?

Foggy’s arms wrap around him, telling him it is allowed. Foggy’s scent, and heartbeat, and safety. Hands rub his back in measured circles. “Did something happen?”

Nothing happened. Today’s been pretty good. He’d had a long talk this morning with Fiona about his Dad. About how great he was, and how he used to read Matt stories. Where the Wild Things Are. The Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse. How those are some of Matt’s favourite memories. How hearing sirens used to make him upset because he’d be convinced someone was hurting, and his Dad would make up stories to calm him with brave policemen and kind paramedics swooping in to save the day.

Then theraplay with Foggy. Foggy being so attentive as he rubbed cream into Matt’s bruises. And a funny game where he drew shapes on Matt’s back and asked them to guess what they were. Theraplay always leaves him feeling more confident, which is how he finally kicked his butt into gear and asked for help completing Tony’s present.

“You worried about Fletcher’s verdict?”

Matt shrugs, not sure.

“Because you don’t have to be.” Foggy steps back from the hug. “Todd Vasquez and Dennis Short went away for a long time, and Justin Fletcher will too.”

“Don’t know why,” Matt whispers. “Just feel scared sometimes.”

“OK.” Foggy rubs his arms like he’s trying to warm him up. “Do you feel better now?”

A little. Matt nods. “Can you - can you tell me if you leave?”

“Oh.” Jump of surprise in Foggy’s heart. “Yeah buddy. No problem. Sorry, I didn’t think you’d mind earlier, because you weren’t there, so I figured I wasn’t exactly leaving you.”

“It’s OK.” It’s not like he can expect Foggy to tell him his every move. “You need to do more physio?”

“Twenty minutes left. Then we’ll go get some food. I’ve had my breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, and lunch. It’s afternoon tea next.”

Which means another attempt of someone trying to get Matt to eat something. He nods anyway. It’ll be worth it to spend time with Foggy.

***

If Matt puts his feet through the middle of the tire, he can touch the padded floor of the jungle gym. Holding tight to the chains, he walks it around in a circle. Clink clink clink as the chains twist around each other.

Clint walks across the metal bar the tires hang from. “You like the lollipop Bruce made?”

Even Clint’s trying to feed him up. “It was nice. Not many ingredients. I don’t want any more.”

“Well you ate that one. That’s something.” Wild movement as Clint almost, but doesn’t fall. “What was with the pained face?”

Clint’s more observant than he acts. Lifting his feet up, Matt lets the tire spin him around, dragging his socks over the floor to slow the motion when it gets too rough. “The cold hurt my tooth.”

Clint sounds closer. Metal against cloth. Strained sound to his breathing. Hanging upside down. “You have a hurt tooth?”

Right. Another thing he’d forgot to mention. “It only hurts when there’s hot or cold, or when I chew. Maybe it got banged up with Wright?”

Thump against rubber. Creaking of metal chains. Clint drops into the tire swing next to his. “That why you’re not eating?”

Everyone’s always asking him why he doesn’t eat. The tire runs out of spin, leaving him swaying instead. “I can chew on the other side of my mouth. Just not hungry I guess.”

“Oh you’re hungry sometimes. I see it.” Worry in Clint’s heart. Shuffling against rubber as the man lies on the swing.

Balancing the satchel on the side of his tire swing, Matt lies down as well. The rubber tire is bumpy and uncomfortable, but the swaying is nice. “I could give you Petrie?”

Clint sighs, and he sounds really sad for some reason. “Nah bro. Not right now.” A pause full of air currents from softly swaying tires. “Hey, Matt, I’m your friend, OK? After everything: New Delhi, goofing in the Catskills, everything else that’s happened. I think I get to call you my friend. I mean, you don’t have to call me your friend, but I get to call you mine.”

“No.” Matt swallows, nervous. “You’re my friend. If you - you’re my friend.”

“Yay!” Movement. Clint punches the air? “I’d give you a victory friendship hug, but I’m kinda tired.”

Matt knows tired. He’s tired all the time lately.

Clint can’t be as tired as he sounds, because only a couple minutes pass before there’s a bump against Matt’s tire. Did Clint just…?

The bump comes again, more insistent this time. A snicker follows it.

Narrowing his eyes, Matt uses a chain to pull himself into sitting. Sticks out a foot to tip Clint’s tire side to side.

The shoving match that follows ends with Clint falling out of the tire, and both of them laughing hysterically.

***

“It’s not fair!” Matt shouts, pacing the gym. Anger pools and rushes inside him.

“I know.” For some reason there’s a grin in Bucky’s voice. There has been since he returned with Lucky from his lecture five minutes ago and heard what Matt’s angry about. “Tell us why it’s not fair.”

Matt’s feet walk the same path. Around and around the boxing ring. He’s afraid if he goes anywhere else he’ll lose his bearings. “It’s not fair because - because he helped the others hurt me. And he hurt me! He shouldn’t have done that.”

There’s gasping sound of Lucky trying to pull against the hold Bucky has on his collar. Foggy’s heart beating worry. Clint standing still, like he understands why Bucky’s voice sounds like pride.

“Why shouldn’t he have hurt you Matt?” Encouragement in Bucky’s voice.

The words are enough to make him freeze, hands clutching at the hoodie he’s wearing. Bucky doesn’t mean that as an accusation, right? He means it as a question. So there must be an answer. “Because he raped me. It hurt. He chose to do it. So it’s his fault. Not mine.” The anger starts to rise again. “He chose to do it. So he should be punished for doing it. Six months to a year isn’t fucking punishment!”

“And what do you feel about Fletcher?”

“I hate him. I HATE HIM!” The words thunder out of his mouth, leaving him flushed and panting, but he can’t stop. His head pounds. His hands shake. “He - he patted my face afterwards, like I was some kind of object. Like I wasn’t something he could hurt. But he did hurt me. He hurt me a lot. And he made me feel worthless, and helpless. I hate him for that.”

“Good job Matty.”

Frustration in Foggy’s voice and tense muscles. “Fletcher’s going to get a ridiculous sentence. Captain Darius’s plans to get him off easy look like they paned out after all. I’m not seeing the good in this.”

“Oh it’s terrible,” Bucky says, still with that pride in his voice. “And Matt’s angry about it. He’s angry at Fletcher about it.”

“He hasn’t done that before,” Clint says quietly from Foggy’s side. “He’s been angry at himself, at the situation, and at people uninvolved in what happened. He hasn’t been angry at any of his rapists.”

“I get it.” Snap sound of Foggy clicking his fingers. Smile in his voice too. Strange. His heart sounded worried only a minute ago. “You find it difficult to get angry at anyone for hurting you, right Matt? But you’re angry at Fletcher?”

“He hurt me,” Matt says, confusion mixing with the anger. What are they talking about? “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“You’re right buddy.” Pride in Foggy’s voice too. Hearing it is nice, but confusing. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“Anyone else you’re mad at?” Bucky asks.

It doesn’t take long to think of some. “Fisk. He let them touch me. He shouldn’t have done that. And he tried to sell me to people who were going to hurt me. He didn’t even care what they might do. And Wright. I hate him for hurting Foggy. And he hurt me too. He said he was going to hurt me like on the video. He expected me to let people hurt me again. I don’t want anyone to hurt me again.”

“What about Rowe?” Foggy asks excitedly. “Feeling any rage monster feelings about him?”

The anger rushes away like he’s been dosed with cold water. Fear is left. It tastes like the words _“Going to teach you a lesson you fucking bitch.”_ and alleyway scraping at his palms as he tries to get away.

Less excitement in Foggy’s voice. “What about Dennis Short?”

If he’s angry in front of Old Spice, he’d notice. It’s always bad when he makes Old Spice notice him.

“Vasquez?”

Queasy feeling in his stomach as the disgust in Dirt’s words washes over him. Making him feel like he’s something horrible. Something none of the Avengers or Foggy could possibly like. It’s a bad topic. He raises three fingers.

“Got it bud.” Foggy doesn’t sound happy anymore. A smile appears in his voice, nice, even though it sounds forced. “But Justin Fletcher’s a total asshole, right?”

Matt nods, trying to find that anger again. It takes a while. “Bubblegum’s a total asshole.”

***

The dinosaurs go under the Jenga blocks. Then they hide in the treasure box with the lid closed tight. Then they go in the back of the middle drawer of the coffee table, the boxing pads over them.

It’s good to line them up and put them in a place they’ll be safe. Even Cera is made safe. It’s repetitive. Predictable and orderly. It makes him feel less overwhelmed, like rocking or flapping his hands.

“No way. A residential hospital isn’t going to happen,” Foggy says from above and behind him, on the large couch.

“It might be our best option.” Claire sits on the floor beside him. Everywhere she’d gone, the kittens had followed her, which is why Tony took them away to his workshop to teach them something. Though what a genius engineer intends to teach three little kittens, Matt has no idea. “They’re trained to deal with this.”

“Do you know how bad some of those mental health places can be?” Fabric against leather as Foggy leans forward on the couch. “I’ve met a few people who’ve gone to Bellevue, and the stories they could tell will make your skin crawl.”

“Bellevue is a large, understaffed hospital that takes on difficult patients. Several of their psychiatric patients have committed crimes. What I’m talking about is different. There are lots of hospitals for eating disorders and other mental heath issues that are good at what they do. I’ve heard good things about the Outlook in Westchester. They’re used to treating males with eating disorders, and they’ve got nice facilities.”

Putting the dinosaurs carefully in the treasure box with the model car, Matt folds over the lid and pulls the small computer out of his satchel. People message him on it sometimes. Jessica sends him updates on what they’re doing. Short things, like ‘hit another facility. Three rescued. Eight arrested. No fatalities, so don’t get your knickers in a twist.’

Nat just sends him strings of emoticons for some reason known only to her. Jarvis helps him read those, and seems equally confused what the meaning of a dancing cartoon poop with eyes is.

Leaning back against the coffee table, Matt types ‘They’re talking about me,’ and sends it to Jessica.

“Matt has…” Rough sound of Bucky rubbing his stubble. “Unique issues. Don’t you pal?” The small computer is set on silent. It vibrates to warn him a message is coming through, giving him a few seconds to place his fingers on the refreshable braille display.

‘Jessica: If they’re telling you what to do, tell them to fuck off.’

Telling him what to do isn’t the problem. Structure is good. Decisions made for him removes stress. Except when they decide he has to do something he doesn’t want to, like eat.

“People have different reactions to trauma.” Movement of Claire shrugging. “There’s a chance they won’t have come across a case with all your issues Matt. But I’d be surprised if anyone who’s worked in that field for any decent length of time won’t have come across combinations of your needs in various patients. This won’t be new to them. They’ll have come across trauma before, and anxiety, and depression. Sensory issues are less frequent, but they happen.”

Lucky sighs on the floor next to him, shifting closer.

Foggy makes a frustrated noise. “Are you really saying he’ll be better at a hospital than here with us?”

“No.” Movement of Claire shaking her head. “But if he continues to lose weight, we’re going to have to look at different options. I’d rather have that conversation now with Matt, than later when we’ll have less time to talk it through.”

Shifting of Foggy’s clothes as his muscles tense. “This wouldn’t be such a problem if you and Steve didn’t let him exercise so much.”

“Hey.” Tense in Bucky’s voice too. “You’ve seen how fucking anxious he is. Exercise helps with that, and his sensory issues. And he ain’t exercising that much lately, what with having no energy and all.”

“Over exercise is something we need to keep an eye on,” Claire says diplomatically. “But our main focus needs to be upping the amount of calories going into that scarecrow thin body of yours Matt.”

Matt hunches over the small computer, wishing he could escape this conversation. He could use three fingers, but given how often he’s heard people talk about his lack of eating, this isn’t something that’s going to go away easily. His fingers find the right keys to send another message to Jessica. ‘They’re talking about sending me away.’

Fabric shuffling as Bucky leans forward on the large couch. “Matt? You want to say something about all this pal?”

Yes and no. He wants to hide from the conversation and pretend it doesn’t exist. He wants to beg them not to send him away with strangers. He wants to somehow make them understand that he can’t eat. That tasting food enough to wake that gnawing hunger, and then not eat is the best power trip. The mind controls the body. That’s not true anymore. But this is one tiny part of himself he can control.

The tablet buzzes in his hands. He places his fingers over the refreshable braille display. ‘Jessica: If you don’t want that, then tell them no.’

Easier said than done. Matt swallows.

‘Jessica: Repeat after me Murdock. Fuck no.’

“Um.” Matt clears his throat. His heart pounds. “I - I want to stay in the tower. With Foggy.”

“Then we’ll do our best to make that happen,” Bucky says firmly.

“But,” Claire adds. “You’re going to have to start working with us. You’re down to 119 pounds. You’ve lost muscle mass. Your bmi is only 17. For your body type, that’s much too low. You’ve lost 32 percent of your body weight in under three months. The criteria for hospitalisation is 25 percent body weight loss in that time period. I need you to realise how dangerous this is Matt.”

Every night before bed, Bruce asks him a lot of questions about how he’s feeling and checks his pulse, blood pressure, body temperature, and blood sugar levels. Once a week he goes up to the med floor. They scan his heart and take blood and urine to test.

“Matt.” Claire places a hand on his arm. “If your blood sugar drops too low, you could start having seizures or go into a coma. The same could happen if you get too dehydrated. Malnutrition can cause imbalances in your electrolytes, which can lead to kidney failure or a heart attack. Ketones can build up in your blood, and cause you to slip into a coma. All these things can kill you. Even if you survive, going too long without nutrition can lead to long term impacts on your health, like loss of bone density. Do you want to explain to me how you plan to do back-flips from rooftops when the landing could shatter your legs?”

Lucky lifts his head from the floor to lick Matt’s fingers. It’s a nice distraction. He focuses on stroking the dog’s head.

“You’ve already developed anaemia,” Claire continues. “And the vitamins we have you on aren’t making much of an impact on your blood levels. You’re refusing to follow the meal plans we’ve discussed. You’re not giving us much choice here Matt. If you don’t start working with us, our only way to get you well will be admitting you into a hospital for enteral feeding.”

Putting aside the small computer, Matt brings his knees up to his chest. “What’s…”

“A tube.” Claire’s voice is matter of fact. “Going through your nose, down your throat, into your stomach.”

His stomach turns over. It sounds invasive.

“Couldn’t we do that in the tower?” Foggy asks.

“It’s usually done in a hospital setting,” Claire says. “If Matt agrees to it, that’s one thing. If he refuses then things need to be done in a more regulated setting.”

In other words, they need to make sure all the I’s are dotted and T’s crossed before they force a tube down his throat against his will. Lucky licks his hands, but it doesn’t help.

Bucky sounds even more tired than he has lately. “If it comes down to it, then whatever we need, Tony can get. That way, at least you get to stay in the tower Matt.”

What good is that if people can do whatever they want to do to him in here?

“Matty. Hey buddy.” Grunt of pain as Foggy shifts forward on the couch. “It’s not like we want to do this. We’re just trying to help you here.”

“We need to keep you safe,” Bucky adds. “Part of that is keeping you safe from yourself. This not eating thing you’re doing. It’s self harm just as much as cutting is.”

“I can’t eat.” How can he make them understand? “I can’t.”

“Either we work out a way to help you start eating more,” Claire says. “Or eventually we’ll need to tube feed you.”

***

Matt curls up in the hammock until evening, tracing the felt dinosaurs. People ‘knock’ and ask him how he’s doing, and he ignores them.

No matter what they say, he’s not going to eat. They can’t force him.

Except apparently they can.

Lots of clatter from the kitchen area before there’s smells of food. Chocolate cookies. The communal lounge always seems to smell of chocolate cookies since he got back. Some kind of sweet vegetable. Various types of Thai food. There’s Pad Thai in there. His favourite.

His resolve weakens before he forces it back. So what if they’re trying to make things easier on him? They’re still expecting him to eat. They’re expecting him to give up that last piece of control over himself. As much as he wants to work with them, he can’t do that.

He can’t just give in. What would Stick think?

The stabbing fear inside his chest grows more painful at the thought.

Happy sound of Clint humming a tune. Fast footsteps move from where Bruce and Sam chat in the kitchen area, past Tony and Bucky’s bickering near some humming device, past where Foggy’s arguing with Jessica over his phone. Fabric moving as the man taps the side of the hammock. “Knock knock. Hey bro, supper time. What’re you gonna try today?”

And just like that, Matt’s resolve shatters, and the rest of him shatters with it. They won’t stop. They won’t let him have this. If he keeps trying, they’re going to force a tube down his throat. He has no control, not really. He never did.

“Aw bro.” The fabric of the hammock shifts under him as Clint climbs in. Warm arms around him. Beeswax and coffee. Tugging sound of fabric as Clint pulls the top of the hammock over them.

Matt’s shoulders shake. His face is wet. Breathing devolves into sobs and gasps that never feel like enough oxygen.

It takes a long time to stop.

***

“Your stomach’s not used to food,” Sam says as he sits beside Bucky on the couch and hands Matt the muffin. “You’ll need to eat small meals of nutrient dense foods. As you get used to it, we’ll up the calories.”

“You’ve lost a lot of weight in a short time.” Bruce walks over to the armchair Tony’s heartbeat is in, smell of Thai food in his hands. “Your body is in starvation mode. Chances are you’re going to need to eat a lot of calories per day to gain any weight back.”

“Weight gain shakes are probably going to make a come back at some point pup.” Ceramic against skin as Tony takes a plate from Bruce. “I’ll do my best to make them not taste so bad. Could look into protein bars too.”

Foggy sits Matt’s other side, hand on the back of his neck. “For now just focus on eating this Matt. Come on. One bite at a time.”

Matt turns the muffin over in his hands. It smells like butternut squash, eggs, flour, nuts, sugar. His breathing comes too fast. It’s going to taste nice. He doesn’t deserve that.

Bucky leans close. “We’re just trying to help you pal. Let us help you.”

His eyes are sore from all the crying. Pain in his throat, making it hard to swallow. He may not like this, but they’re trying to help because they care. Is that right? Foggy cares. He’s sure of that. And Steve said everyone is worried about him not eating. That could mean worried like the nuns, where they really seemed to be more annoyed. Or it could be worried like Foggy worries about him. Foggy says he doesn’t like it when Matt is hurt because he cares about him. And Bucky says not eating is a type of hurting himself.

Click click from Tony. Sound of a movie playing. A few moments before there’s Hiccup talking and the audio description describing what’s on the screen. How to train your dragon. Except for Karen, no one seems to like that story as much as Matt, and yet Karen’s not here.

A tight emotion twists into a knot in his throat. No one speaks up to protest against Tony’s choice. It’s that as much as Bucky’s and Foggy’s heartbeats either side of him that makes him lift the muffin to his mouth and take a bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers for this chapter =
> 
> We deal a lot with eating disorders in this one. Social anxiety. Separation anxiety. Usual scary place that's Matt's mind. Strong emotions. Discussions about residential hospitals for eating disorders and force feeding. Slight mention that some mental health hospitals can be scary places. 
> 
> As always, if you think I need to add anything to the trigger list for this chapter, tell me in a comment. 
> 
> Notes =
> 
> I feel like I'm ragging a bit on Rikers and Bellevue hospital in this story. These are big places, and while they both have a fair amount of horror stories attached to them, I'm not declaring them a hundred percent bad. Being defense lawyers to the underdogs, I feel Matt and Foggy would be in a position to hear stories from people who've had bad experiences in these places. That's colored their view. 
> 
> Those charged with a crime who claim they are not mentally fit are likely to be sent to Bellevue for evaluation. So again, it's likely that hospital is their closest experience of mental health hospitals. Hence why Foggy is against sending Matt to a place like that. (In addition places like Bellevue tend to rely more on medication than therapy which isn't the best mix for Matt.) 
> 
> The Outlook in Westchester is a real place. http://www.nyp.org/psychiatry/services/center-for-eating-disorders/about-the-outlook-at-westchester I haven't been there, but I've heard good things. Staying in the tower is very important to Matt, so it's unlikely he'll go there. But if he did, it looks like it could be a good choice.
> 
> Guys! This fic has a new fanart by the generous HalfAsleepWriter. Go look:
> 
> http://art-half-asleep-writer.tumblr.com/post/156533187530/fanart-for-a-fanfiction-ive-been-reading-for-a
> 
> Next chapter should be up on the 19th of Feb.


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoilery triggers for this chapter.

Matt sits in his spot on the couch and traces the braille list of things that are going to happen. His other hand twists the tangle, the felt covered plastic joints looping around and around, in and out.

Fabric shuffling next to the coffee table as Foggy checks the satchel. “We said this afternoon for a reason Jones. You couldn’t have arrived at a worse time.”

“Need to go up to the med floor at seven fifty.” Panic fills up his chest, making it feel like it’s going to burst. He’s been panicking even more since he’d started eating again. There are even more pills he needs to take every day, but it doesn’t seem to help much. “That’s two minutes.”

Steve’s footsteps approach the back of the couch. It’s him and Foggy going with him to the medical floor. “I don’t think this is going to work. He’s not calming down.”

A noise escapes his throat, somewhere between a whimper and a suppressed scream. They’ve been planning this trip all weekend. Things aren’t allowed to change now. “We need to go up to the med floor at seven fifty. Then there will be a few minutes to get comfortable in the chair before the dentist comes. Foggy and Steve will be there. They won’t leave. Jarvis will watch and keep us safe. The dentist will introduce herself and explain what’s she’s going to do. I don’t need to talk if I don’t want. I can stay sitting upright, and she’ll look in my mouth. She’ll use metal tools and a torch. She’s only looking. She won’t hurt. She might ask to do an x-ray, but I don’t have to do that today if I don’t want to. If teeth need fixing, we’ll arrange to do it later, not today.”

Jessica’s heart beats strange. Worried? Upset? Uncomfortable? He’s not sure.A note of false in her voice. “Afternoon was the time you said, not me.”

“I don’t know what you think we’re doing with him Miss Jones.” Creaking of leather as Steve leans against the back of the couch. “But you don’t need to try and catch us off guard. You’re not going to find anything you wouldn’t find at any other time.”

Rough sound of the tip of Foggy’s cane against the floor as he stands up. “Except an anxious Matt, who is in no way ready for whatever update you have for him.”

Matt pushes Lucky off his lap. “Foggy.”

“Got it bud. Seven fifty, right? Let’s go.”

***

The dentist sounds almost as old as Stacy. She has a warm sounding smile and a confidence in what she’s doing that eases some of his tension.

“Time was we used to treat all patients sitting up.” Clink clink of her setting her instruments by the chair. “I prefer it this way too when I’m the patient. Lying down in a dentist chair always makes me feel like a tortoise on its back.”

On Saturday Pepper and Claire brought some dental instruments for him to hold, explaining what they do. They also had him try a low dose of nitrous oxide, which hadn’t been that good. The mask made him feel claustrophobic, and the laughing gas left him feeling buzzed, but not relaxed. To top it all off, he’d spend the next hour throwing up. So no nitrous oxide during dentist visits for him. He’d taken some extra xanax instead.

Foggy sits on his left side, holding his hand. Foggy’s done this before during trips to the dentist or doctor. Not always the hand holding thing, but a steady presence and gentle reminders of how long each step will last, and more importantly, what the doctor or dentist is about to do next. You’d think a nurse would know not to grab the blind guy’s arm without warning, but not always.

“I’m not going to touch your head,” the dentist says. “So I’d like you to stay as still as possible so I don’t have to chase you around. You’ll feel metal and plastic against your teeth and gums. I might end up touching your lips or teeth with my gloved fingers while trying to get a good look. I’ll need to lean in close to see, which might get claustrophobic. I’ll talk while I’m looking so you know what’s going on. If you need a break, just raise a hand.”

Foggy squeezes his hand. “That OK buddy?”

Maybe? He’s not feeling as anxious as he did now that he’s up here. He nods.

“Promise I’ll be quick.” The dentist’s heart beats truth. “Now I need you to open your mouth as wide as you can.”

His jaw is clenched so tight that it clicks when he loosens it. Open his mouth. It’s part way open when the chair feels too confining against his back. The warmth around him is too close. Fear shudders through him, sudden and consuming. Phantom feeling of fingers tugging his hair.

“Matty?”

Hitting out at the warmth in front of him, he tries to get away. Only the chair (fence?) is in the way. He can’t figure out where to go. Voices. Impacts to his body. Panic. Then somehow he’s on the smooth floor (alleyway?) and there are solid arms holding his in place. Steve’s heartbeat thuds through him, and his soft voice tells him he’s safe. It’s not long before Foggy’s heartbeat and voice join him.

Whimpering sounds come from somewhere in the room. There’s a horror filled moment where he thinks he’s hurt someone. He hit, didn’t he? The whimpering noises last a long time before he realises they’re coming from him.

***

“You didn’t even touch her,” Foggy says once he’s back on his safe spot on the couch. “Steve was too fast.”

Matt holds out shaking arms toward Lucky. The dog seems to know what he wants without asking, scrambling up on the couch and flopping into his lap. The smooth head bumps his hand, asking for strokes. It’s good to just hold the warm bundle of fur, and listen to the dog’s breathing and heartbeat.

“You knew this could happen.” Sam’s feet make their steady way from the kitchen area. Smell of chocolate in his hands. “So you’ve got a plan B, right?”

“Plan B.” Steve sits heavily on the couch cushion next to Matt’s. “We’ll take x-rays of the tooth we know is causing a problem. Then IV sedation.”

Raising his head from Lucky’s chest, Matt reaches until he finds Steve’s arm. His breath comes too shallow.

“No x-rays today,” Steve reassures him. “And we’ll wait until tomorrow to discuss IV sedation. Today’s a big enough day as it is.”

“Here’s your hot chocolate Matt.” Sam holds the chocolate smelling thing in front of him. “You did a good job today. You tried hard.”

He did? He makes a confused face.

Steve’s hand gently guides his own to the warm plastic cup. “You tried today, didn’t you?”

Matt’s hands wrap around the plastic cup. It has a lid, with a straw poking though it. The straw winds around in lots of loops. He nods.

“The flashback seemed to come on pretty suddenly,” Steve says softly. “I bet you didn’t expect it.”

Matt shakes his head. He expected not to like the dentist trip. He didn’t expect that amount of fear to knock into him so fast.

Foggy’s hands wrap the soft blanket around his shoulders. “Well it’s over now buddy. Remember what you decided to do after the dentist to relax?”

Matt sips at the hot chocolate. It’s made the way he likes it. Plain cocoa powder, lots of milk and a little cream, honey instead of sugar, and the whole thing heated to only lukewarm. “Hot chocolate, and listen to a new book with Nat.”

Jessica’s heart does weird things from where she sits on one of the armchairs. Nat stands up from the other armchair, heart steady. “I think the end of Odd Thomas might be a bit much for you right now. We’ll save it until later. You finished Spirit Stallion of the Cimarron, so we’ll start a new one. But I’d like to read something short and funny first, is that OK?”

Short and funny sounds pretty good right now. He nods.

Nat squeezes in between him and Steve. It’s nice to have her so close again. She doesn’t seem to be hurt. That’s good. Sound of her turning the pages of a book.

“He’s not a baby,” Jessica says, muscles tense. “You don’t get to patronise him like this.”

“I’m not.” Paper moving as Nat finds the right page.

“I read that book when I was ten.”

“Not everyone who goes through trauma has the same needs,” Steve says from near Nat’s feet. “If Nat thinks this will help, and Matt doesn’t mind, I’m willing to try it.”

“You flit in and out Jones,” Foggy says, although his and Steve’s heart beat surprise when Nat got out the book. “You don’t see what he’s like day to day. At this point, I’m willing to try anything that might help him be calm for once.”

Matt curls his fingers into Foggy’s sleeve, not liking the frustration in his voice.

“Hey bud.” Smile that sounds fake in Foggy’s voice. “You’re fine. We’re going to kick back and listen to this story. You want that, right?”

Matt nods. Stories are good. They’re simple. A lot easier to cope with than the real world.

“He has some sizable gaps in his understanding of some concepts,” Nat says. “This seems to be the quickest way to rectify that. Children don’t grow up by magic. If he didn’t learn these things then, he still needs to learn them now. And he once said that his father reading him stories was one of his fondest memories. He’s been seeking out stories from television and books much more than Foggy says he used to. I think he’s seeking out sources of comfort he had back then. I think this is what he needs.”

Sound of Jessica shifting. Her heart beats too fast. “If something bad happened to me, I wouldn’t want to be babied.”

Foggy’s heartbeat is soothing against the side of his head. The dentist looks at his mouth, then he comes down here and has hot chocolate and listens to a story with Nat. Is that not happening? Sharp shards of emotion stab at the backs of his eyes. This is what’s supposed to happen.

“Hi Matt.” Gentle affection in Nat’s voice that doesn’t match up with her heartbeat. “Let’s see if you like this book, OK?”

“Matt’s therapist is coming in a couple of hours,” Sam whispers. To Jessica? “If you’re worried about how we’re treating Matt, you’re welcome to ask her any questions. She’ll talk to Matt and figure out how much he wants you to know. For now he’s going to need some time to calm down. He’s recovering from overload, and any extra stress now is going to send him right back there.”

Jessica makes a huff noise. It sounds angry, but she quietens. Her heart keeps beating its unsure pattern.

The book is simply written, but not too young. Maybe about the same ages as the How to Train your Dragon books? It’s good, drawing him into a story about a boy who wants to be perfect. The stabbing emotions in his chest fade as he listens to the boy doing increasingly random funny things in search of perfection. Eventually the boy learns that he doesn’t have to be perfect. It’s enough to be good and have fun.

“Do you think he’s right?” Nat asks at the end. “That perfection isn’t important?”

Matt’s sleep drunk. Leaning into Foggy’s side, exhausted now that the anxiety has left enough to feel how tired he is. His eyes are too heavy to keep open. “Stick wouldn’t think so.”

Hard edge to Steve’s voice. “What would Stick think?”

“Lazy.” It’s nice to sit here surrounded by the warmth of Foggy, Lucky, Nat, and Steve. Feels almost like he really is safe. “Self indulgent. Undisciplined. If I don’t get it right every time, then I’m dead. Perfection is important.”

Nat’s leg taps his. “And what do _you_ think?”

Matt blinks, lifting his head from Foggy’s shoulder. Difficult question. “If you make mistakes then you get hurt. But when I focus on doing everything perfect, then I get really mad at myself when I fail. And I get really anxious about failing, and it all makes me depressed and anxious, and I make even more mistakes. I’m closer to perfect when I don’t worry about being perfect. Less stressed too.”

“Was Stick right?” Nat presses. “Or was Stick wrong?”

Bucky says Stick was wrong about how much he could control his body, but Stick helped. Matt was useless before he met him. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

***

Jessica’s still there when Fiona comes in the late morning. She asks Matt if she can ask Fiona some questions about him.

“For now we’re focusing on helping Matt develop and use reliable coping mechanisms,” Fiona explains once she’s asked both Matt and Foggy if they want her to answer Jessica’s question. “Compared to the amount of coping techniques society allows children to have, such as playing or comfort objects, society allows adults to have very few. It’s not uncommon for adults, both with and without childhood trauma to take comfort in activities or objects they had as a child. Some activities have been proved to be very therapeutic. Take colouring books for instance. When a child or an adult colours they enter a mediative like state which has many of the same benefits as we expect from meditation. Nowadays colouring books are made for adults because of these benefits. And speaking in broader terms, art therapy has great affects on both adults and children. Not all, but some play therapy is based on games you’d commonly see children play, and they work just as well for most adults. Children and adults aren’t completely different species. What works in one could work in the other.”

“OK,” Jessica says slowly from the armchair. “Murdock. This is something you’re choosing to do, right? The books? No one’s forcing you into it?”

Why would anyone need to force him into it? He shakes his head.

“You saw how deeply he managed to sleep,” Foggy says from by his side. “And that’s after the disaster with the dentist. If this works, then what else is there to worry about?”

“There’s something to worry about if you’re treating him like a kid just because he was raped.”

“I think Jessica’s having a tough time understanding why you like being read to, because she doesn’t like that,” Fiona says. “Do you want to explain what you like about it Matt?”

“Sometimes…” Matt bites his lip, not sure how much to say. The rest earlier helps. There’s less anxiety flooding through him. “Sometimes I get really overwhelmed. It’s nice to have someone close, and something to concentrate on that isn’t why I’m feeling overwhelmed. It was possible to relax, and I can’t relax much lately.”

“And this is something you want?” Jessica presses. “The toys and the books?”

“He doesn’t really play with the toys,” Foggy says. “He uses them to stim with and self soothe. They’re like a point of focus for him.”

Matt shifts. He didn’t know Foggy was watching him that closely.

A pause before Jessica speaks. Sound in her throat like she’s building herself up to it. “My sister tries to look after me sometimes. It can drive me crazy. If it drives you crazy, you know what to do, right Murdock?”

“Communicate.” Even though that’s still difficult. “Tell them what I want and don’t want.”

“They still keeping shit from you?” The unsure tone makes her voice wobble just a little. “They pulled that shit with you before.”

Matt’s not sure how to answer that.

“Look, we’re not sheltering him from things,” Foggy says. “But he’s been through a lot of fucked up stuff. If it were up to me, his life would be nothing but chocolate and stories. It’s not up to me, so we’re telling him about things when we think he’s in the right mindset, and encouraging him to ask questions.”

“You can’t keep things from him.”

“We’re really not.” Movement as Foggy shakes his head. “I think we’re up to date on everything, and anything we forget, that’s where you come in. Just do us a favour and turn up at the time you say you’re going to turn up. Matt’s not a fan of surprises, and if you’re planning on telling him something or doing a question answer session like this afternoon, then he’s going to need prep time beforehand and time to relax afterwards. That’s just the way things are right now.”

“Matt,” Fiona says. “Jessica’s worried that you might have some questions you want answers to. Do you have a question?”

He strokes his hands over Lucky’s smooth fur. “Yes.”

“What is it bud?” Foggy nudges him lightly. “You can ask us anything.”

“Can I ask at two?” That’s when Jessica was supposed to come to fill him in on things and answer questions. “Jarvis helped me make a list.”

Shuffling of fabric before Jessica answers. “You got it Murdock.”

***

Jessica’s heart still beats unsure when it’s time for him to ask his questions, and she seems like she’s being unusually careful about the way she speaks to him.

“Something’s wrong,” he says after he’s asked about Fisk, Wright, Devan, Captain Darius, Bubblegum, Baseball Bat, Old Spice, Dirt, Skittles, Cocaine. “You’re being polite.”

Fabric shuffling as she folds her arms the other side of the coffee table. Tuna seems to think this is a move meant for her, and dances across the smooth wood before darting away. “You’ve asked these questions before Murdock. I know you know the answers.”

Right. He shifts closer to the coffee table, careful not to disturb the sleeping kittens burrowed in the front pocket of his hoodie. His fingers try to feel out the grains in the wood. “Sorry. I just - sometimes it helps to hear it again? Is it annoying?”

“If it’s part of your fucked up shit, I can put up with it.” Movement as Jessica shrugs. “I am trying not to go one hundred percent dick here. I mean, like ninety nine percent, sure, but not a hundred percent.”

“I don’t know. Some of it might be compulsion. And I dissociate and get caught up in things in my head. So I can’t always remember if I’ve asked something. And sometimes an answer doesn’t make sense in my head, so I ask the question again.” Come to think of it, he’s probably been doing that type of thing a lot with the others. Is he annoying them too? “If I repeat a question a lot, people usually tell Jarvis, and then he reminds me of the answer along with other things I need to remember during my morning routine. Um…and if I ask the same question more than a few times in a row, I’m probably winding myself up. So just remind me to breathe? Or ask Jarvis to get someone. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

A pause. “Is this what it sounds like when you actually cooperate in therapy? Because you’re sounding disgustingly self aware right now Murdock.”

Matt laughs, causing the kittens in his pockets to mew sleepily in protest. “It’s necessity? If I wasn’t cooperating in therapy, I’d be dead or - or catatonic.”

“Catatonia was never my thing.” Jessica’s heart beat slows. More relaxed. “Self destructive behaviour all the way. Alcohol. Reckless behaviour. That’s where the fun is.”

Tuna makes a confused sounding meow from the corridor outside the communal lounge. Sometimes it’s almost like she gets lost. He whistles softly, calling her over. “I’m working on reckless behaviour, and I won’t be completely off the sedatives for at least another couple weeks, so alcohol is on Foggy’s ‘don’t you dare’ list.”

“Stark’s too,” Jessica says. “He wouldn’t let me in the tower until I handed over the booze.”

“There was an incident a while back.” Matt shrugs. “He probably doesn’t want a repeat.”

“The look on his face wasn’t a guy preventing an incident. Too protective for that.”

Matt’s not sure what to say to that. “How - how are things in Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Less deadly now that The Punisher isn’t doing his thing. We stumbled over some ninja shit while looking for Fisk’s trafficking ring. Still no idea what they were doing, except it’s mostly cleaned up. Things got fucked up enough that the FBI got off its ass and got involved. That’s the advantage of having the Avengers as contacts. People are intimidated enough to actually do their jobs. That ‘listen to the city’ neighbourhood watch is still going strong, especially in Hell’s Kitchen. And now that the police department decided to change their tack from telling the people to leave the policing to the police, to putting up notices about what reasonable force means, they’re a hell of a lot gentler with the criminals than you ever were.”

“So it’s…I know I’m recovering, and it’s not my fault I couldn’t help when I was injured.” Matt takes a deep breath. “When I stopped being daredevil, did people get hurt?”

“At first, yeah.” Fabric moving as Jessica leans her weight on the coffee table. “Crime skyrocketed after the video came out. And not long after that, The Punisher entered the picture. Offed a heck of a lot of gang members before anyone took notice. Then about when you did your heroics in India, people started taking notice of what was going on. Setting up the neighbourhood watches. Which made everything worse. A few civilians got in over their head playing hero, and the rest just antagonised criminals. But the listen to the city movement kept gaining traction. And once they got enough numbers, no criminal wanted to deal with a neighbourhood watch that size. Now crime in Hell’s Kitchen and some of the other areas is lower than ever.”

Tuna hops over Lucky, onto his lap. “Jarvis says The Punisher killed a lot of people. I don’t like the thought of you and the others working with him.”

“Too bad, ‘cause that’s what’s happening. You know, he took over patrolling the streets of Hell’s Kitchen for a while. Kept things non lethal while he was doing it, out of respect for you. He’s a real wack job, but he helps us get in and out alive, and keeps most of his shots non lethal.”

Matt raises an eyebrow. “Most of them?”

“The group that bought you. The one Fisk’s got ties with. They bring in people from all over. Clean them up and sell them as slaves. But their biggest money earners are the stock they keep. Types of people with something special that makes it more profitable to rent them out instead of sell them. That’s what we think they wanted you for. You’re famous. Imagine the slaps on the back criminals with money would give each other for renting their very own vigilante to beat black and blue.” Jessica’s voice changes, like she’s gritting her teeth. “Only famous vigilantes isn’t a big category. Most of the others were kids Murdock.”

Oh.

“He said to tell you he’s going to try and keep things non lethal, the way you’d like it.” Jessica huffs a half laugh. “Even promised to turn himself into the police after all this if you want him to.”

Matt shifts uncomfortably. “So everyone’s OK?”

“They’re fine. Barely a scratch on them. The only ones who get up and personal with danger are me, Luke, Natasha, The Punisher, and Anna. Your mom and Punisher make a heck of a team.”

That’s not something he expected to hear.

“They’d be one hell of a lot better if they didn’t clutter the coms trading stories about their kids during battle. I’m sure there’s a time and a place for discussing the best way to deal with cranky children, and it’s not while people are trying to kill you.”

That’s really not something he expected to hear.

“Did Anna really need to drive to Columbia five times to order you to go to bed?” Teasing in her voice.

Right. Time to change the topic.

***

The stories help. Every couple of days Nat comes to the tower and reads him a story. Some are about emotions. Others talk about friendships and family. One talks about loved people dying, and how bad stuff like that happens, and it’s not your fault. Another says he has the right to ownership over his own body. No one should touch him without permission or hit him, which is a nice thought, but not true. People have always hit him and touched him without permission.

Often the books have simple language, but the discussions that follow are never simple.

They also read some of the larger book they’re making their way through. It’s about a teenage girl who has problems speaking after she gets hurt like Matt got hurt. Sometimes they don’t even make it through a page, and Matt stops at least once per session to rant about the unfairness of something like that happening to her.

Father Lantom comes sometimes to talk, and it’s those moments, and the stories, and theraplay, and the sessions with Fiona, that help him find the calm he needs to take the kittens to the rescue centre on Saturday the 25th of June. Well, not complete calm.

Matt fidgets outside the room where the vet is checking on the kittens, the same room the same vet checked them over in when they’d first found them. The weighted vest is a comforting weight across his chest and shoulders. “What if the people who take them hurt them?”

Bucky’s a comforting presence on his right side, and Pepper on his left. Her voice is soft and patient. “Why do you think they’ll do that?”

Is she really so naive? “That’s what people do.”

Surprise in hers and Bucky’s hearts. Cold metal on his shoulder. Bucky’s metal hand. “What people?”

“All people.” He’s explained this before to Steve. Wright hurt him and Foggy. Baseball Bat and the others hurt him. Fisk wanted a lot of people to hurt him. People either hurt him or stand around and let him be hurt. “People always hurt.”

“That’s just-” The warmth leaves as Bucky does something. Skin against skin. Scrapes his hand over his face. Takes a deep breath. “Look Matty, when you meet a lot of people who hurt you, you start thinking everyone’s like that. When Steve first brought me to the tower, I thought they were the nicest handlers ever because they did really basic stuff like didn’t hit me, and also that they were really incompetent because they didn’t give me clear orders. Trauma can distort your whole world view. Even today I get nervous when strangers start telling me what to do because I’m scared my brain will recognise them as a handler, and I’ll start following those orders.”

“But they…” It doesn’t make sense. “The COs took me to Old Spice and the others to get hurt, and to sell me, and they just stood by while I was hurt. And people heard me that night and didn’t do anything. And people watched the video. People, they just hurt.”

“Let’s try something pal,” Warmth as Bucky shuffles his plastic chair closer. “I want you to try naming everyone you’ve met who hasn’t hurt you. Think back. All the way from when you were a kid until now. As many as you can remember.”

It’s difficult. Getting hurt takes up such a lot of space in his head, that it takes a lot of concentration to focus on the times he wasn’t hurt. “You don’t hurt me?”

“Good job Matt.” Tired smile in Bucky’s voice. “Who else?”

He names everyone in the tower. Then Karen, Jessica, Luke, Kate, Father Lantom, Anna, Ned, Candy, Fiona, Olivia. Brett, and all the rest of Foggy’s friends he’s been introduced to. His teachers. Most of the nuns. His Dad. His Dad’s friends at the gym. Some of the kids from school. People he remembers from college and law school. Clients. People he’s worked with. Neighbours he’s come across. Then there’s doctors, the people who helped the day of the accident, shop assistants, people he’s met at bars or other places. A lot of people. More than he could hope to name.

“When you walked from your apartment to work,” Bucky asks once he can’t think of any more. “How many people do you think you pass on the street?”

“A lot.”

“And how many of those people hurt you?”

It’s strange to think about, but “I don’t think any of them hurt me. But they might’ve shared the video?”

“You’ve met a lot of people who hurt you.” Sad pattern to Bucky’s heart. “I have too. But we’ve also come across millions of people who haven’t hurt us. It’s easy to remember the bad people in our lives, but we need to remember the good people too.”

It’s a long time since the video came out, but sometimes when he senses someone watching him in the cafeteria, he still wonders if they saw it. What they think of him. Whether if he were helpless like that night, they would help him or hurt him, or maybe just stand by and let bad things happen. Whether they’re judging him for what happened to him, or how he’s reacting to it. How many of them agree with Wright, that he’s good for nothing else now but being hurt.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do Matt,” Bucky says. “We’re gonna try and think back to someone who’s been kind to us. You think of one, then I’ll think of one. Ready?”

***

The vet is one of the kind people, Matt decides as he says goodbye to the kittens. They’re going to stay in the rescue centre, but they probably won’t be here for long. Pepper, Steve, and Foggy came up with a really neat idea to make today an open day for the rescue centre.

Clint took so many pictures of the kittens that they’re famous. A lot of people are going to come today wanting to give them homes. But to do that they’re going to need to walk down a corridor with enclosures full of cats that need homes. Then they can enter the cat yard, where even more cats run around in a giant cat enclosure. There are cat petting stations. Information for cheap neutering services. Places to sign up to volunteer at this and other rescue centres. Talks about the problems of unneutered pets and pet abandonment. Lots.

The hope is that more than the kittens will end up with homes, and people will be better informed.

The two larger kittens have to be pried out of the carrier. They don’t like new spaces, like Matt sometimes doesn’t like new spaces. Tuna, the girl, pads out slowly, sniffing everything. She has soft scraping of a collar around her neck.

Matt deposits one of the male kittens on the grass of the large enclosure, before pointing at Tuna. “Why does she have a collar and not the others?”

Click as the vet shuts the carrier so the kittens can’t get back inside. “We’re putting those collars on cats that have medical information we need to make sure potential owners understand before they agree to reserve them. Her brothers are fine, but the tortie girl is at least partially blind, not that it affects her much. It may be safer for her to be a house cat rather than roam, but in this city that’s the same for any cat. She’ll be a little different from the average cat, but her other senses are stronger than humans. She’ll be able to use them to compensate for most things.”

Tuna must smell him, because she leaps onto his lap, then scrambles up his hoodie. Weight of her sitting on his shoulder. Jerky movements as she washes herself, occasionally pulling at the collar.

Matt smiles at the kitten. It explains why she seems lost sometimes after her mad dashes. That must be when she loses her bearings. “Bucky, she’s like me.”

“I heard pal.” Bucky’s uneven footsteps make their way over from the opposite side of the yard. “Steve, you hear that?”

Steve’s coming through the creaking metal door to the yard, several scrapes of paws against plastic carriers in his hands. “I heard. Do we know why she’s blind?”

“It’s a rare side affect of the antibiotics she and her brothers were on.” Fabric shifting as the vet stands up. “Otherwise she’s fine. A little small for her age, but nothing dangerous.”

Matt shuffles backward on the grass, toward Steve, away from the feeling of looming. Apparently his mind thinks it’s OK for people he trusts to stand over him, but not others. Tuna makes a startled noise at the movement, digging her sharp claws into his shoulder.

Plastic against grass as Steve sets his carriers down. Warmth as he crouches by Matt’s side. “This is the last of the ones to go in the yard. Sally wants to know if you think it’s safe for Maisie to be part of the petting stations or not.”

Fabric shuffling as the vet bends to pick up the carriers she and Matt brought. “I know she’d love the attention, but it might be hard on her arthritis. Maybe if we set up an adults only station so none of the kids tug her around? I’ll go see what the others think. Thanks for the help setting this up.”

“It’s no problem.” Soft meow as one of the cats brushes - fur against denim - against Bucky’s legs. “Just hope some of the adult cats get homes out of this.”

Creak of the vet opening the gate. “You and me both. Though I’d settle for a few less abandoned kittens next year.”

“Matt,” Steve says softly. “You understand why we can’t keep the kittens, right?”

Matt nods, rubbing Tuna under the chin. The male kittens huddle close to his legs, having apparently decided the yard is too big and unfamiliar. “I’m too useless to even look after myself right now. I can’t look after them too.”

“Hey!” The cat scrambles away at the sharpness in Bucky’s voice. “Don’t say that. You’re not useless.”

Labelling. “Sorry. I feel useless, but that doesn’t mean I am useless.” Though right now he can’t think of a single reason why he isn’t useless. The way he reacted to Old Spice and Baseball Bat in prison burns at the corners of his mind. And Wright would’ve taken him away and hurt him if it wasn’t for Bucky and Tony.

“We can’t keep the kittens because three little kittens grow up into three adult cats, and that’s a lot to take care of in our chaotic household.” Steve’s hand rests gently on his back. “I know this is difficult for you. You have a tendency to get very fiercely attached to things. That’s part of why I was worried about taking on the kittens in the first place. I knew you might have trouble saying goodbye. But we did a good job with them, didn’t we? They’re happy and healthy. We’ll make sure they go to good homes. Maybe we could even visit after they’re settled in?”

That could be good. Except “Do you think people won’t want her because she’s blind?”

Bucky crouches down on his other side. “Ain’t like it affects her much. She’s just a little different is all.”

“People don’t like different.” That’s why all the kids who stayed a long time at the orphanage were different. Older, disabled, behavioural difficulties. Or all three like Matt was. Not even the foster families wanted that kind of work.

Matt’s sunglasses vibrate against his face as Tuna tries to bite down on the frames.

Strange metal against tiny claws as Bucky lifts the kitten off his shoulder. It may be his imagination, but it seems like Bucky is using his metal hand a lot more than when Matt first met him. “We like different, don’t we Steve?”

“We do.” Steve sighs. “But a cat is a lot of work. They live for years.”

The low level of anxiety that’s been sitting in his stomach since coming here flares up. “If three cats is a lot, then they’ll be split up. At least one of them will be all on their own.”

“Could say two of them have to go together.” Tuna purrs in Bucky’s hands. “But not three, eh Stevie?”

Rough sound of Steve pulling a hand through his hair. “I know what you’re trying to do jerk.”

“Hey.” Bucky’s warmth brushes against Matt as he leans over. Puts Tuna’s purring on Steve’s knee. “Ain’t doing anything but pointing out facts.”

Another more defeated sounding sigh. Then Tuna’s purr grows louder as Steve scritches her head.

***

“Huh,” Tony says later that day when Matt’s curled in his corner of the couch, half asleep. “I thought the aim of today was getting rid of the kittens?”

“So did I,” Claire growls from one of the armchairs. There’s small fast beat of Tuna’s heart near her.

“Plenty of people wanted to put their names forward for the male kittens.” Steve’s footsteps approach where Foggy’s heartbeat sits at the table. Smell of chicken soup in Steve’s hands. “Less for Tuna since she’s blind. And Matt didn’t like the thought of her all alone without anything familiar.”

Sam’s moving things in the kitchen area. Clink of putting things in the dishwasher. “He gave you the eyes, didn’t he?”

Yawning, Matt pushes himself up to lean over the back of the couch. “She likes exploring. And it might not be safe for her outside in the city. The people who wanted her only had small flats. She’d be happier in the tower.”

“She’s good company.” Movement as Steve shrugs. “Even if she steals my art supplies. Bucky, Nat, Clint, Bruce, Pepper, and Thor already voted to keep her.”

“I’ll vote yes on one condition.” Skin against ceramic as Foggy takes the chicken soup smelling stuff from Steve. “If she tells me where she hid my star wars models.”

“She likes my cooking.” Smile in Sam’s voice. “I’d miss her if she left. And we put a lot of effort into rearing those kittens. It’ll be nice to get to keep one of them.”

“Why not.” Tap tap as Tony texts? Writes? Something. “If Pepper voted yes, I’ll vote yes. I’ll need to make some modifications. A life expectancy of twelve to fifteen years is too long to scoop poop. Self cleaning litter trays on every floor. Maybe a scent marker to help her find each one? Timed cat food dispenser. A jungle of cat trees and scratching posts to keep down those claws. And I’ll need to upgrade Jarvis if we’re ever going to track down where she stashes her stuff. How the fuck am I going to automate grooming?” Tony’s fast clumsy footsteps make their way into the elevator. Whoosh as the doors close around him. Presumably going to the workshop to start cat fitting the tower.

Amusement to Sam’s voice as he makes his way to the back of the couch. “Here’s the smoothie Tony was going to give you before he got distracted. No weight gain shake, I promise.”

The first time he tried a weight gain shake after getting back from prison he threw up. The gritty texture of the drink is never nice, but this time the sensations were too much. He’d showered twice to make his skin stop crawling, and rinsed his mouth out with Foggy’s too sharp mouthwash. So now they have a deal. If he sticks to the nutritionist’s diet and starts gaining weight, he can try high calorie bars instead of weight gain shakes.

Steve whistles, and Tuna makes a questioning noise before sprinting toward him. “Lucky and Bucky are going to come back from the rescue centre soon. He’ll be pretty fried after being around that many people so long. I’m going to get things set up in our apartment so he can crash as soon as he gets back.”

“I’ll help.” Sam follows Steve and Tuna into the elevator. “I have a rolo brownie recipe I think only Barnes and Clint will fully appreciate.”

“Me too!” Foggy calls out from the table.

“You’ve used your high sugar foods quota for the week and you know it. You need to go easy on your stomach while it’s healing.” Wide movement from Sam. “And Matt, stop enabling him. No more letting him convince you to sneak him junk food.”

“He’s right you know,” Claire says once the elevator whooshes shut. “High sugar foods aren’t going to be as easy for your stomach to handle. And since your stomach can’t handle as much food as it once did, you need to focus on nutrition dense foods.”

Foggy groans. “Nutrition devoid foods are my life, and I’m a stress eater Claire. Do you realise how difficult this is?”

Whoosh as the elevator doors shut.

“Suck it up.” No sympathy in Claire’s voice.

Huff of effort as Foggy gets to his feet. Less rubber sound against the wooden floor. He’s using the cane less. “You get the results?”

“Matt, your three month test shows HIV negative.” Skin against skin as Claire folds her fingers together. “We’ll repeat the test at six months, but it’s just a formality. Unless you think there’s a reason to start that count over again?”

Matt slides down the back of the leather couch until he’s sitting in the corner again. It’s soothing to rub the backs of his hands over the fluffy blanket.

Strange sound to Foggy’s breathing. Slow sound of his footsteps rounding the couch. Some kind of tension between Claire and Foggy. Non verbal communication maybe. The couch cushion jumps as Foggy sits beside him. “Matty, in the prison… did anything more happen that you didn’t tell me or Fiona about?”

He’s told them lots. Everything about Fisk. Everything he remembers from when Baseball Bat and the others cornered him against the fence. He shakes his head jerkily.

“You sure buddy?” Foggy’s voice is soft and cautious. “No one’s going to be mad if something else happened.”

“We just need to know if something happened,” Claire says. “So we know how best to help you.”

The smoothie Tony made him is in a plastic cup. One with a lid and looping straw sticking through the top of it. He could turn it upside down. Throw it across the room if he wanted, and not a drop would be spilt. “They were going to, but they didn’t. I got lucky.” Even though he doesn’t feel lucky. Not when he can still remember getting down to his knees when they told him to.

“OK.” Relief in Foggy’s voice. “Claire wanted to stick around today to talk to you about what’s going to happen next.”

“To yell at me.” Matt’s already figured that out. “For not gaining weight.”

“No yelling,” Claire says. “You’ve done a good job sticking to the meal plan the nutritionist made for you. I get that the first one didn’t mesh with your sensory issues as well, but this is working better, right?”

Matt nods, fiddling with the plastic cup. Lots of small liquid meals like this one spaced throughout the day. Sucking up the thick liquid through a straw works out his mouth enough that he’s less sensitive to tastes and textures. There’s oatmeal and cookie with dried fruit. Sam makes lots of muffins and cookies that have nuts and fruit or vegetables in them. It’s easier to eat something that tastes like a sweet treat than a meal. They’re experimenting with nut butters. Hazelnut is his favourite, but he likes when Tony puts pecan nut butter in his chocolate and banana smoothie.

“He’s done a great job telling us what’s working and what’s not.” Pride in Foggy’s words. It’s nice to hear it. “Cooking with Sam and Bruce seems to help, and Steve’s started some sensory play. I think we’re getting somewhere.”

“Last week you lost five pounds.” Fabric against fabric as Claire puts her elbows on her knees. “This week you lost another two pounds. That puts you at 112 pounds. You’re finally managing to get a halfway decent amount of calories down you, and you’ve stopped exercising. That’s good, but I don’t like all this walking around you’re doing. And Jarvis says you’re still trying to do too much housework.”

“I’m already sleeping and resting most of the day.,” Matt grumbles. And he’s eating so much his stomach feels bloated and uncomfortable all the time. “I need to do something to help.”

“You can,” Claire says firmly. “As long as that something keeps your butt sitting down. You lost a huge amount of weight in a short time. It’s going to take a lot of effort and a long time to put weight back on. That means no exercise until you start gaining, and we’re going to have to increase your portion sizes.”

What? “I’m already eating so much my stomach feels like it’s going to explode.”

“Buddy, you were eating tiny amounts for a long time.” Foggy squeezes his shoulder. “Then you stopped eating completely. Your stomach isn’t used to people sized portions.”

“And we’re going to have to work our way up to more than people sized portions if you want to reach a healthy weight. We’re sticking mostly to nutrient dense foods to make it easier, but you’re still going to need to eat more.”

He leans into Foggy, feeling more tired than when he came back from the rescue centre. This is going to be harder than he’d thought.

“Matty? You want to get better, right?”

Matt nods. Just walking makes him tired. When he came back from the rescue centre, he collapsed and slept for hours. He doesn’t want to be this weak.

“Then you need to work with us, right?” Claire presses.

Another nod. He’s doing that. He’s talked a lot with Fiona about how helpless it makes him feel to eat. Like he’s giving up on something. And how sometimes he doesn’t feel like he deserves all this nice food people make for him.

“Gaining weight is what I want you to concentrate on right now,” Claire says. “If your tooth makes that too difficult, you need to tell us. But if possible your doctors want you to at least start gaining weight before they use sedation.”

Another thing he’s not looking forward to. But they’re right. He needs to work with them if he wants to be less of a burden. Finding the straw with his lips, he drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers =
> 
> Extreme anxiety, flashbacks, extreme emotions, minor dental treatment, low self esteem, miscommunications, accusation of treating a rape victim as a child, discussions of dissociation and other issues Matt goes through, mention of slavery, mention of child slaves (implied that they are used as sex slaves), scary place that is Matt's mind, mentions of abandoned pets, mentions of past sexual assault, talk around eating disorders.
> 
> Nat reads Matt a book for recommended ages 8 to 12. There are mentions of discussions of picture books. They also read a YA book about a teenage girl who was sexually assaulted (only a brief mention). 
> 
> Notes =
> 
> Nat's right that the lessons in picture and young chapter books can be very helpful for Matt. If you want to find complex topics explained in the simplest form, picture books can be the place to look. However, it's not the solution for everyone. Nat's suggesting it partly because of her observations of Matt seeking stories and needing things explained in many different ways, and partly due to issues of her own that she hasn't fully worked through. 
> 
> Nat introducing these types of stories may be a good idea for Matt (but not for a lot of people in his position). Favorite childhood activities are sometimes explored in therapy delving into a person's childhood, but this is usually at a later stage in therapy than Matt is at now. Fiona is being very careful not to make any judgments, but she would not have chosen to delve into younger books this quickly for fear of Matt being uncomfortable with it, and the possible risk of digging up too many issues too soon. (Which isn't to say that it won't be useful at this stage.)
> 
> Nat has noticed that some of Matt's cognitive distortions are linked to some things he didn't learn as a child, and is hoping to help him learn some of them through the books. This is a little overly simplistic. Matt definitely has some areas that weren't taught, but he also unlearned things through negative lessons, and adults can have cognitive distortions without deprived childhoods. Again, examples and discussions from the younger books could be very useful for Matt, but there are other ways to do this. Remember, Nat is trying and she may be onto something helpful for Matt, but that's not to say she's an expert on the subject. She's seeing things from a child trauma point of view. Hints of why in a later chapter.
> 
> Oh, and in case you were wondering, Jess is totally checking up on them after her text conversation with Matt. She and Matt reacted to trauma in similar and very different ways. Matt derives comfort from being protected and cared for. He needed to shed his habit of pushing people away and remaining stubbornly independent in order to accept therapy. He's shed / shattered so much of himself that he suffers a lack of a sense of identity. This means he doesn't hold as many opinions about the acceptability of certain things as he did before, although he's influenced by what he thinks others may think of him, he ultimately defers to Foggy and his other friends. 
> 
> Jess had a more stable childhood than Matt and didn't suffer any significant trauma until her teenage years. Emotionally she's older than Matt and much more secure in her identity. She also has certain things she hates such as being controlled (or anything she perceives as being controlled). Jessica would hate being treated the way Matt is treated. 
> 
> Sometimes the least understanding people toward rape victims are other rape victims because everyone reacts to trauma differently. Jessica is trying, but she's not perfect. One of her biggest fears is that she'll be belittled and controlled because of what she went through. She sees Matt not standing up for himself and assumes he wouldn't like that treatment / is being forced into x behavior because she wouldn't like it. She's learning. 
> 
> I'm moving house next week, and I've no clue when we'll get our internet sorted, so can't give a date for when the next chapter will be out. I'm told it could take up to a month. Sorry about that.


	57. Chapter 57

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for trigger warnings. Be warned, this chapter has a big one.

“Bubblegum’s in prison in Rikers,” Matt tells Sam as he plays with the spaghetti on Sunday morning. “Baseball Bat is in Rikers. So’s Old Spice and Dirt. They’re going to be in prison for years. Wright’s starting trial for kidnapping and attempted murder. Captain Darius is starting trial for murder, attempted murder, among other crimes. Captain Darius is out on bail until he’s sentenced, but I don’t need to worry because some of Nat’s friends are keeping an eye on him.”

Sam sits in front of him on the grass. This floor smells like flowers. There’s trickling of a water fountain to his right. Soft grass under the blanket he’s sitting on. Hot lights overhead that feel like sunshine. If it weren’t for the lack of wind and the solid sound of the far away walls, he’d think he was outside. “What about Albert Jones and Adam Thomas?”

Scooping up spaghetti from the plastic tray, he squishes the slimy strands together. “They’re dead.”

“Do you remember what you told Foggy about them last night?”

The spaghetti feels horrible. Thick starch sticks to his fingers. But that’s the point of this. Spending time with textures he doesn’t like so he gets used to them. Playing with them with his hands should make it less impossible for him to put them in his mouth. “I know they’re dead. Jessica said so.”

Sam lowers his voice. “Foggy said you told him they were in the tower. Then you told Steve there were monsters in the cupboard, and they were going to get you.”

He shivers at the memory. Splat as some of the spaghetti falls through his fingers. He can’t remember most of what he said. Only that he was hysterical. So scared that Foggy must’ve called Steve in case he needed restraining.

“I know what it’s like to be so scared of the enemy that they turn to monsters in your mind. Natasha and Steve think that’s what you’ve done with the people who hurt you. Matt, can I ask you a question?”

Matt drops a strand of spaghetti by Lucky’s paws. Eager snapping sound as the dog eats it up. “You’re already asking questions.”

Sam carries a steady calm with him, except when he stress bakes. Now it’s thick in his voice. Reassuring. “Why don’t you call them by their names?”

Because Bubblegum is taste of bubblegum in his mouth as he bites down on the man’s hand. Baseball Bat is clang smash of baseball bat and so much pain. Old Spice is that smell everywhere and crooning words telling him he wants this. Pulling the plastic tray towards him, he shrugs.

“I’m not blaming you or telling you off.” Sam’s heart beats truth. “I’m just trying to understand.”

The muscles in his shoulders relax a little. It’s never nice when he thinks someone might be mad or disappointed with him. “That’s just who they are in my head. It’s who they were before I heard their names.”

“You’re going to be scared of them.” The way Sam says it makes it sound like an accepted fact. Not some weakness of Matt’s that Stick would yell at him for. “When someone holds power over you for a long time, it’s only natural to see them as more powerful than they actually are. And emotions aren’t rational. You were scared and in pain. It’s like Fiona talks about. Your mind develops coping mechanisms to try and keep you safe. They hurt you. If you’re terrified of them, then you’ll go out of your way to avoid them and be less likely to be hurt again. I’m going to be truthful with you Matt. I’m not sure you’ll ever stop being scared of them. I’ve worked with people who’ve met their attackers after decades and felt like they were right back there, being attacked again. But figuring out ways to remind you they’re human might help. Humans don’t come back from the dead.”

Matt drops a handful of spaghetti on Lucky’s head. Lots of happy snapping and twisting around. “Have - have you met Bucky Barnes or Steve Rogers?”

Sam chuckles. “I deserved that. Though I’m not sure super soldiers count. Adam Thomas and Albert Jones were ordinary humans. Jessica researched the coroners report. Karen talked to people at the prison. Natasha saw the bodies themselves before they were buried. They’re dead. They’re not coming back.”

Matt lets Lucky lick his palms. Dog saliva is only slightly better than the thick starchy residue of the spaghetti. Good thing he has hand-wipes in his satchel. “I know.” Intellectually he does. Emotionally is a different story. “But I’m not going to understand that when I wake up from a nightmare.”

“Then we’ll keep reminding you.”

***

“I’m sorry,” he says after he throws the puzzle across the communal lounge. “I didn’t mean to. I’m really sorry.”

“Sweetheart, it’s OK.” Anna sits next to him on the couch, smoothing hair out of his face. “You looked like you were getting frustrated. Were you getting frustrated with the puzzle?”

“I just - I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t figure it out.” Scraping against leather as Lucky puts his front paws on the couch to lap Matt’s fingers. And Ned and Anna brought the puzzle for him today, so they could spend Sunday with him, like they promised so long ago. They’re here for him, even though there’s a distant air to Anna and Ned’s conversations with each other, like they’re not getting along. They’re still both here. “I really like the puzzle. I do. I just couldn’t figure it out, and I got frustrated and threw it. I’m sorry.”

The couch dips as Ned sits his other side. Smooth wood placed in his hands. Lots of pieces that will slot together to make a 3d shape. “That’s OK son. We don’t know how to do the puzzle either. Let’s try and work it out together.”

***

Sunday night there’s a new card game that smells of the cellophane it was just wrapped in. Sound of Clint tearing it open. Thor remarking on design being ‘most colourful.’ It’s only him, Foggy, Bucky, Clint, and Thor tonight. Everyone else is busy.

“Why don’t you want to play?” Bucky asks in a hushed voice the others shouldn’t be able to hear. “Is it because Thor’s there?”

Thor is big, and occasionally too loud, and smells of odd spices. There’s still a lot unknown about him. People are dangerous. They hurt. The others say Thor isn’t like that, but how do they really know?

“Matt.’ Bucky’s voice is rough, but gentle. “I know you’re wary of him. Bet he pushes a lot of your triggers. But the way you’re treating him - remember that day in Catskills? That dad assumed all kinds of horrible things about you. Didn’t even try to see if you were a decent guy before he started yelling. How’d that make you feel?”

The memory still stings. “Bad.”

“So how’d you think Thor feels that you’re not trying to get to know him?”

He hadn’t thought of it that way. He swallows heavily, fiddling with the hoodie he’d borrowed from Foggy.

“Think maybe you could give him a chance?”

Lots of people want to hurt him. That’s what Wright said. That’s just the way things are now. But even though Thor is big and frightening sometimes, maybe he won’t be one of those people. Does that make sense? Is that a risk he should be taking? He nods shakily. He can give Thor a chance.

***

“We’ve got to eat this fruit fast,” Bruce says as he fills up the many fruit bowls along the breakfast counter. “It won’t last as long without Matt picking them out with me.”

Matt makes his slow way through a bowl of oatmeal, yogurt, and dried fruit. Breakfast can take a long time. Especially with the increasing mountain of pills he needs to take in the morning. Zoloft has been joined by other pills. There are pills in the morning, and more in the evening. The bonus is once the combination and dosage is right, Fiona hopes he’ll be less reliant on the xanax.

For now it just means every so often the dosage of something increases or a new pill is added and Jarvis, Bruce, Fiona, and Sam all ask a lot of questions about how he’s feeling..

Thor sits as the kitchen table opposite Matt, munching his way through a stack of french toast Matt helped cook. “Those berries of black friend Matthew gathered at market upon his last venture were divine. I and Lady Pepper sang many a praise to his talents.”

“Clint!” Sam calls out as the elevator whooshes open and Clint steps off. “You want breakfast you better grab it quick. Matt helped make it, so it’s not going to last long. There’s omelets.”

Clint’s fast footsteps make their way to the table instead of directly to the coffee machine like most mornings. “Mmmm. Matt omelets.”

Every day has a good person talk of some description, but it’s the small moments like this that are the best. Each casual word of praise glows warm in his heart. It’s harder for his brain to convince himself they don’t mean it when no one is asking them to be nice to him.

***

“When’d you do this?” Foggy sits close on the couch, holding Matt’s arm. Gentle. Controlled tension in the man’s voice that’s not supposed to be there in this time. Theraplay is time just for them. Touches. Smiles in Foggy’s voice. Lots of praise even when Matt doesn’t deserve it.

Foggy doesn’t tell him off lately, but Matt’s still cautious. He doesn’t want that tension to turn to frustration or disappointment. Then again, he deserves it. He’s not supposed to bite himself. “Last night. You were sleeping.”

Foggy’s fingers trace around the warmth of the bruise. “Did you have a nightmare? Is that why?”

There are always nightmares, but that’s not why. “I couldn’t meditate and fall back asleep. Too tense, so I got rid of some of the tension.”

“There have to be better ways to do that buddy. How about you try to think of some later with Fiona?”

Matt already has lists of things to do when he gets frustrated while eating (move his plate away so he doesn’t throw it), when he gets anxious (deep breaths. Go to his safe spot on the couch and use distraction and soothing techniques. Tell someone if he needs help), and lots of other situations. Sometimes he and Sam will practice when he’s calm. Sam says practice is the best way to remember what to do when he’s not calm. He nods.

Tight around his upper arm as Foggy rolls his sleeve up. “I’ll put some cream on. Looks like you’ve got some scratches too. Was that Tuna?”

Another nod. Tuna plays rough sometimes, but she has fun, so Matt doesn’t mind a couple of scratches.

Pop sound of the lid of the cream coming off. Unscented, and not too oily. The other games can change, but checking for wounds is always a part of theraplay. Foggy always uses the cream Matt likes. “I’ll get someone to pin her down later and clip her claws. Putting the cream on now.”

Cold against the warm skin of the bite. No matter how many times this happens, the careful concentration Foggy seems to show to every wound lodges as a lump in his throat. On his own, he’d never pay this attention to a wound so small. “I can handle it. It doesn’t matter.”

Foggy’s grip tightens around his hand before gentling. His fingers continue rubbing in the cream. “Buddy it’s important. It’s important because you’re important.”

***

“How is your work going?” Fiona asks after Matt shows her the 3d puzzle Ned and Anna got him yesterday.

There’s sound of Foggy down the corridor in the games room. Talking to someone on the phone. It’s reassuring to have him on the communal floor, even if Fiona likes to have most of their sessions just Matt and her. “Every day I help make breakfast. That’s easy to remember. Sometimes I forget to feed Lucky and Tuna because they need food lots of times a day, but Jarvis reminds me.”

“It sounds like you’re doing a good job.”

Matt shrugs, putting the puzzle back in one of the drawers of the coffee table and taking the plastic dinosaurs out of another. Fiona doesn’t mind if he fiddles with things during their sessions. She even says she prefers it because he’s less nervous that way, and more open to talking. “It’s not real work.”

“Does that worry you?” Fiona asks. “Not having a job similar to the ones Foggy or some of the other people you know have?”

The dinosaurs line up along the edge of the coffee table. “Sometimes my Dad couldn’t get work and people called him names. It made him sad. A job is important. Having a good job is really important. My Dad wanted me to go to college and get a really good job, and I… I did that. And now I’m doing nothing.”

Fabric against wood as Fiona leans her elbows against the other side of the coffee table. “Do you think parents who stay at home to raise children are doing nothing?”

Matt shakes his head. One of the women in his apartment block stayed at home with her baby. It sounded like a harder job than anything he’s ever done. Even when he was Daredevil, he still got to come home to a quiet apartment and get some time off.

“How about soldiers who come back from war and don’t get a job?”

He thinks of Bucky and Sam. The familiarity Sam has dealing with suicidal thoughts. Bucky sitting on his bed and not moving for hours. “War hurts people. It can take time to get better.”

“There are different kinds of jobs in the world.” Smile in her voice. “I think you’re doing a great job taking on such complex therapy and still managing to help your household. I hear you organised Clint’s birthday as well.”

He closes his hands around Petrie and Ducky. “Bucky and Steve helped. We made a Nerf arrow obstacle course. I think he liked it.”

“Without breaking client confidentiality I can tell you he loved it. He loved the present you got him as well.”

Warmth builds in his chest. A dozen newspaper bead bracelets to replace the one Matt gave him before that fell apart. And a remote controlled plastic hawk Tony helped him build. Surprisingly Sam seemed to like the bird a lot too, playing with it almost as many times as Clint. Sam’s birthday isn’t until September, but it could be a good idea for then. “Steve’s birthday is next. The fourth of July. He needs to make a speech in union square but he’s spending the rest of the day in the tower.”

Soft pad pad of Tuna hopping on the coffee table. Purr and scratching sounds as Fiona pets her. Fiona smells like coffee and cats. Maybe Tuna’s curious about her cats. Hopefully it’s not because she misses her brothers. “Are you planning on doing something for him?”

Matt nods, moving closer to the coffee table so he can place his arms protectively around the plastic dinosaurs. Tuna is nice, but she steals everything. “I think Nat, Sam, and Bucky will know best what he’d like. Only Nat doesn’t come back much, and when she does we’re really busy with the books. Sam’s studying for those medical courses. And Bucky’s going to lectures now. I haven’t found the right time to ask them.”

“Because they’re busy?”

“Yeah. And Bucky’s tired after lectures. I don’t want to make him sad again. And Sam’s already doing so much work cooking things I might like. He does nice things like cooks with me sometimes. And sometimes he sounds worried.”

“Have you asked Sam why he sounds worried?”

Flushing, Matt shakes his head. He’s supposed to. They say he’s allowed to ask if he’s confused about what they’re feeling or why they’re feeling it. But that’s rude. The nuns never liked when he asked.

“Do you remember why it’s good to ask when you’re confused about these things?”

He remembers. “Mind reading. A cognitive distortion. Sometimes I assume I know what someone is thinking and I’m not always right.” Usually he assumes someone is thinking something bad about him or is fed up with him. “And I don’t understand some things. Is there a reason I don’t understand?”

“You seem to have problems understanding some emotional and social concepts. Foggy thinks you’ve had this a while. He says you had a lot of difficulty understanding friendship and emotion when he met you. Do you remember?”

“Foggy taught me a lot.” Names of emotions and that it was OK to feel them. That warmth in his chest and wanting to bounce is feeling happy, and it’s OK to show that sometimes. It’s fine to act goofy and joke around. Not everyone will call him names, make fun of him, or tell him to control himself. Prickling pain behind his eyes is sadness. Foggy says it’s not weak to feel sad.

It confused him a lot the first time he cried in front of Foggy, and Foggy didn’t ignore him or act put upon like some of the nuns, or make fun of him like Stick, or patiently tell him to stop crying like his Dad. Instead Foggy hugged him and asked what he could do to help. Foggy told him he had him and everything was OK. It’s hard to believe all of Foggy’s lessons. That crying is an emotional release valve and it’s healthy. That it’s not always bad to feel angry. That he’s allowed to let go and act goofy or want hugs. But crying that first time and being held felt good and safe, and everything he hadn’t felt in years.

“People with C-PTSD can have a harder time recognising their own emotions than other people,” Fiona says. “And PTSD in children is linked with poor social skills. From what you’ve told me about your time in St Agnes, I suspect you might’ve met the criteria for PTSD following your father’s death, if not before. Foggy says you could be very charming when he met you, but only for short bursts, and you’d flounder in new social situations. He also got the impression that you were rehearsing and reusing certain lines.”

“If you treat social situations like a puzzle, you can learn which pieces go where.” Like delivering a line to make women like him. Or talking to a client. Or answering the many repeated lines about his blindness. “I was an English major. I was - before all this I wasn’t bad at words. I liked words. I like reading them. Some things were really easy. Foggy could walk into a debate, glance at a topic and make it up on the spot. He’s amazing. I’m not as good as that, but I always had high scores in debate, even the times when I didn’t prepare as much as I should’ve. I understand a lot. Just sometimes people don’t make sense, and I get things wrong.”

“Truthfully there could be a number of causes, from attachment issues to the simple fact you grew up in a non traditional environment. You’ve told me you had few friends before Foggy, so you’d have limited opportunities to learn social skills. From what you’ve told me about Stick, he didn’t like it when you showed your feelings. How did the nuns react when you were emotional?”

Bad topic. “I cried a lot after my Dad left, and they told me to stop. One time a nun sat next to me, and I just wanted - she flinched away. When I was angry they’d tell me off. If I goofed off someone would tell me to be sensible. They liked it best when I was polite and quiet.”

“Did any of them ask you how you were feeling?”

“Yeah, but the only right answer is to say you’re fine. I tried to say something different once. When I cut a lot and kids at school made my life difficult. She moved onto another kid after five seconds. Didn’t listen. Too busy I guess. There were other kids. Some of them could be hard to handle, and others were younger. The nuns didn’t have an easy job.”

“What do you say if someone at the tower asks how you’re feeling?”

That’s different. “It’s better to try and tell them how I’m really feeling. So they know if I’m getting worked up, or if the medications are causing side affects. And Sam says he thinks I lose track of how I’m feeling sometimes. That I need to learn to keep an eye on my feelings better so I can notice warning signs for getting sad or anxious and use distraction techniques before it gets bad.”

“It sounds like the nuns didn’t have much time for you in St Agnes.” Scratching sound of pen against paper as Fiona writes something down. “Do people have time for you here?”

“Lots of time.” There’s always someone with him. Maybe because he was so clingy when he got back from prison. Maybe because he still hasn’t signed his contract to life. Technically he’s allowed to be alone on the communal floor or in his apartment, but lately there’s something inside that twists with nerves when people aren’t close. It’s getting less frequent, but it’s still pretty bad sometimes.

“What would happen at St Agnes if you asked someone for help and they were busy?”

He remembers trying to get someone to sign a form for school. Or one time when he was younger and more naive, wanting to show someone a report card he’d worked really hard for. “They’d sound frustrated. Sometimes they didn’t seem to hear me at all.”

“What do you think would happen if you asked someone for help here, and they were busy?”

It’s hard to imagine. Sam says it’s fine to ask for help even when people are busy. So did Steve. Has he done that before? Did they sound frustrated?

“How about we try an experiment? Sometime today I want you to ask Nat, Bucky, or Sam what Steve might like for his birthday. I want you to ask, even if you’re not sure if they’re busy or not. You don’t need to talk to them directly if you don’t want to. You could ask Jarvis to pass on a message, or text them from your computer. Or if you want to ask them directly, you could start by saying something like ‘can I ask a question?’ That way they can tell you straight away whether they can help you now, or if they need a few minutes to finish what they’re doing.”

It’s good to have simple clear instructions to follow, even if the thought of texting someone while they’re busy makes nerves flutter in his stomach. It’s easy to imagine people getting annoyed at him. “OK. Can - can I ask you a question now? It’s kind of stupid.”

Patience in Fiona’s voice. “There are no stupid questions.”

“Um.” He shifts until his chest hits the top of the coffee table. Grips a hand around Ducky. “Do - do you think she’s OK?”

Sudden lack of motion from Fiona. Annoyed noise from Tuna as the petting pauses. Then scratching as it starts up again. Pen against paper as Fiona writes something quick. “What do you think? Do you think she’s OK?”

He’s not sure. That’s the problem. It’s a niggling feeling in the back of his head that seems rational sometimes, and irrational at others. It’s hard to put it into words. “She feels the same, and she smells the same, but Ducky was with Old Spice for a long time. I don’t know if he did anything to her. Ducky is mine and Foggy’s. That’s supposed to make her special. But then I think of Old Spice holding her, and she doesn’t feel special anymore.”

“You feel like Dennis Short having her tainted her somehow?”

That’s it. “She’s Foggy’s favourite. I have good memories of her. But sometimes I just want to throw her away and not be around her anymore.”

Long pause full of Tuna’s purrs. “She reminds you of bad memories, but she also reminds you of good ones too. Can I ask, does Foggy want to throw her away?”

Foggy used to move the dinosaurs and make them make funny voices, but he hasn’t done that in a long time. Since before Matt got hurt. But Foggy hasn’t acted any differently towards Ducky since prison. He even kept Ducky by his bedside when he was on the medical floor. “I don’t think so.”

“Do you still like her?”

“She’s Foggy’s favourite.” He turns the dinosaur over and over in his hand. “But she’s not right. She’s broke in a way I can’t explain. She’s different. I don’t think she’ll be like she was again.”

Another longer pause. Slight increase to Fiona’s calm heartbeat. “Even if she’s not like she was, she’ll still be Ducky. Just like you’ll still be Matt Murdock, even if you’re a different version of him. The bad memories don’t erase all the good, even if it feels that way sometimes.”

It’s a lot to think about.

“Before you left,” Fiona says slowly. “You also told me you thought you had lost your identity. That you didn’t know who you were anymore. A lot of people who go through trauma feel like that. Mostly because trauma can shatter your identity, by making you question a lot of assumptions you had about the world and yourself. Part of recovery is finding out who you are now. Some parts will be the same as before. Other parts will be different. One of the best ways to figure out who you are, is to find out the things you like. So Matt, what do you like?”

Fiona asks a lot of difficult questions. What does he like? “I like helping.”

“I’m going to write that down.” Scribbling as she does that. “Is there anything else you like?”

“Stories,” he says hoarsely. He’s still not sure he should like them, but stories make things easier to handle. “Foggy, Bucky, Steve, Clint, Natasha, Sam, Tony, Bruce, Candy, Anna, Ned, Lucky, Tuna, Karen. Heartbeats. Deep pressure. Nice touch. Hoodies. The blanket. Boxing. Sparring with Nat.”

It’s a lot of nice things. A lot more than he thought he had.

Pen against paper as she writes them down. “You are Matthew Murdock,” she says finally. “You like physical contact with people you trust. You like soft material. You like helping people. You enjoy stories. You like boxing and other combat sports. And you care a lot about your friends.”

The words help him feel more solid. More like he’s an actual person instead of a cloud of confusing thoughts.

***

Nat replies to his message within a few minutes, so by the time he’s sitting at the spare desk in Foggy’s office, he has a lot of work to do.

There’s a lock on their office door. Foggy let him check it twenty times before telling him to ‘sit down buddy before you wear it out. Promise it’s going to stay locked.’

The door stays locked. Jarvis controls it, and he says that unless there’s a medical emergency he won’t let anyone in without their permission. Every time footsteps pass outside, Matt wants to check the door again. The walls are thinner here than on the residential floors. He can hear the movements of every single person.

There are so many people.

Buzzing from the small computer. He places his fingers over the refreshable braille display, having set it on silent. This is Foggy’s first work day in a long time, so they’ll only be down here three hours, but he has his headphones for when he wants to browse the web. He prefers audio for large sections of text. That way he can free his hands to fiddle with something.

‘Sam: Nice to hear from you Matt. What did you want to ask?’

Nat already helped a lot. Steve hates going outside the tower on the fourth of July. ‘Fireworks,’ she’d said. ‘And the assholes who set them off without thinking of vets.’ He does a speech late morning, then spends the afternoon and evening in the quiet sound proofed parts of the tower, feeling guilty for being able to do that. Or so Nat says. Quiet activities only because it’s usually a tense week for him.

Rocking slightly from side to side in the spinning chair, Matt types. ‘We should make Steve a cake for his birthday. What’s his favourite?’

‘Sam: Great minds think alike. And he’ll eat anything. Seriously man, he’s a human dumpster. His favs are fruit though. Anything but banana.’

That gives him some ideas. Plugging in his headphones, he browses the Internet, trading ideas back and forth with Sam. It’s not normal work like Foggy is doing on the desk beside his, but if it makes Steve happy, maybe it’s not so bad.

***

Tuesday morning Steve helps him climb onto the counter next to the stove top. It’s the easiest way to cook sitting down. Going through his morning routine and walking down to the communal lounge to help cook breakfast feels like a full workout these days.

Sizzle sound of butter melting in the pan. “How about we try strawberry pancakes today?”

Crossing his legs underneath him, Matt thinks a moment. “Strawberry and chocolate chip?”

Steve chuckles. Foggy’s upstairs talking on his phone. He does that a lot now he doesn’t leave the tower. Bucky and Sam will be down soon. They’re cleaning up from their run. Steve’s always the first one down in the morning, even when it’s not his turn to cook. “We can do that. How about some with dried fruit and nuts too? Those are supposed to be good for helping you gain weight.”

“That would go with chocolate chips too.”

More sizzling as Steve puts butter in Matt’s pan too. “Everything goes with chocolate according to you. Your pan is at the back. Handle towards you. Don’t burn yourself.”

He’ll try not to. Holding the mixing bowl close to his chest, he carefully uses the pouring spoon to put the first measure of pancake mix in the pan. First ones are plain for those who like it that way. After enough of those, they’ll get to add extra ingredients. Chocolate is always the best.

“Matt.” Worry in Steve’s voice. “Your cheek looks swollen. What happened?”

One side of his mouth feels much bigger than the other side. It throbs in time with his heart. “Last night I bit down on a hazelnut on the wrong side of my mouth. It hurt my tooth. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not angry and I’m not blaming you. I’m just worried.” Steve’s hand rests gentle on his shoulder. “Has it been hurting since then?”

Matt nods, tipping the pan from side to side so the mix will spread.

“How bad on a scale of one to ten?”

Short sharp movement as Steve flips his pancake. Matt does the same. “What’s ten?”

Slight scraping sound as Steve moves the serving plate for the pancakes closer. All the time he doesn’t take his hand off Matt’s shoulder. He’s doing other things, but he’s still clearly paying attention. “The worst pain you’ve ever felt.”

The worst pain he’s ever felt is a lot of pain. “Two. Maybe three.”

Jump of surprise in Steve’s heart. “Would you be able to let Jarvis x-ray it again?”

Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. “No strangers. No one asking me to open my…”

“Promise. You’ll need to put the sensor between your teeth like last time so Jarvis can get a good picture. You can do that all yourself. We’ll send the pictures to the dentist who came last time. No strangers until the operation.”

Sick feeling in his stomach, because that’s not true, is it? Later today he’ll go with Foggy to spend three hours on the Legal floor. Jarvis must’ve timed it so they didn’t meet anyone in their little section of the floor yesterday, but there were so many people. He could hear them.

All this time he’s been concerned about people outside the tower coming in. But they don’t need to. Hundreds of strangers are already right here.

***

‘Someone comes into the lobby,’ Matt messages Jarvis when he’s at the spare desk in Foggy’s office with the spinning chair. There’s been breakfast, and x-rays, and theraplay with Foggy, and therapy with Fiona. Usually the theraplay and therapy leave him feeling confident and safe, but today everything feels like a threat. ‘They take a staff member hostage and demand to be taken to a floor me or Foggy is on.’

Buzz of the small computer.

‘Jarvis: Scenario has a likelihood of 0.00004%. The staff entrance is separated from the public one and secured. The only staff member in the lobby is a secretary situated behind a high security defensible desk. Stark security has an estimated five second response time to the lobby and is equipped with the latest non lethal technology. The lobby, outside of the building, and every other floor in the tower is monitored by my cameras. Video feed from high risk areas such as the lobby are monitored by an additional human team to pick up on any nuances my programming might miss.’

Matt presses his palms to the side of his head a moment before plugging in the headphones. ‘If they did manage it, what would happen?’

Jarvis’s voice speaks through the headphones. “The only way to the other floors is the elevator. If the hostages life was in imminent danger the best course of action would be to render them both unconscious with an odourless gas. I’ve never had to use it before, but I assure you, it would be an easy operation. Chance of them reaching you or Mr Nelson is zero percent.”

Frowning, Matt kicks his shoes off so he can pet Lucky with his feet. OK, but Devan made it all the way to the residential floors. Even Wright made it far enough to speak to Matt. Finding the keys of the small computer, he points that out.

“Mr Wright’s identity was confirmed as a detective assigned to your case. As I had no record of the altercation between you, I’m afraid I let him in. Since the conversation had a high level of privacy, the cameras in the room were not recording, but they were monitoring. Had anyone been physically harmed someone would be notified to intervene. Unfortunately this protocol doesn’t extend to verbal harm. I’m sorry that happened to you. Devan’s background was checked after he was recommended to Sir. Mr Fletcher’s identity was not known at the time, so the significance of Devan’s employment history failed to register. Sir has since demanded that background checks on anyone coming into contact with you should be upgraded and carried out on a deeper and more frequent basis.”

That helps a little, but… ‘Hundreds of people work in the tower.’

“Everyone who works in Avengers Tower has a pass that will only allow them onto certain floors relevant to them. In addition, everyone entering the tower is scanned for possible weapons. Background checks are carried out on employment and yearly. Since the incident with Devan, most of the staff underwent fresh checks at Sir’s request. All areas except bathrooms are monitored. Stark security or relevant medically trained staff have less than a minute response time to any part of the tower. Currently you are accompanied everywhere you go, and I am under strict instructions to monitor yours and the other resident’s safety.”

Background checks won’t show everything. Hundreds of thousands of people watched that video. Wright had no history of sexual assault before he watched the video and showed an interest in Matt. Only some of the people who raped him had any record of violent crimes. The woman with the taser said he was popular because of the video. A lot of people wanted to pay to meet him. Wright said that meant a lot of people wanted to hurt him the same way he was hurt before.

A long time ago he was afraid that anyone who saw the video would see him as a victim. He’d thought that was the worst thing they could think. What if he was wrong? What if they don’t just see him as someone who was hurt? What if they see him as someone they want to hurt again?

***

Matt waits in the elevator while Bucky and Foggy get coffee from Stacy.

It’s good to take a few moments to crouch down and play with Lucky’s fluffy ears. The dog pants happily at the attention.

“Did you see the pictures on Daily News? That rescue centre thing?” a woman’s voice asks from across the cafeteria floor. “He’s lost a ton of weight. I still wouldn’t shove him out of bed though.”

High pitched laughter. Several women. At one of the tables on the other side of the floor?

“His ass!”

“I know! It’s a shame he’s always hiding it in sweatpants.”

“You need to see the pictures of him in that devil suit. It’s like something out of a BDSM fantasy. Seriously, it’s like moulded to his ass. You can see every perfect detail.”

Lucky licks his fingers, and he sits down heavily on the floor of the elevator. Did his suit look that bad?

“I’m too afraid I’ll find that video. Rachel says clips keep popping up on youtube.”

“Ugh, don’t mention that. You’re ruining my fantasy of getting into his pants.”

“He is pretty cute for someone who was - y’know…”

“Hey Matty.” Bucky’s crouched down next to him. When did he get there? “Can you tell me where you are?”

Shivers wrack his body. There’s a churning uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. The words won’t come out of his mouth. Why? He was supposed to be over this.

“In the tower buddy.” Foggy’s here too. “In the elevator on the way to the communal floor. You, me, Lucky, and Bucky.”

He knows that. He does. His fingers make the sign for ‘tower.’ Lucky’s tongue chases the movements.

The floor jerks as they stop, but the door doesn’t whoosh open yet. He wants it to. The air is too confined. Suffocating. Bucky’s hand is flat on his back, and there’s no memory of when it got there. This isn’t supposed to still be happening. He’s supposed to be getting better. “Good Matty. Did you have a flashback?”

He’s not sure. He doesn’t always notice the emotional flashbacks. Or the ones that only have smells, touches, pain, or taste.

“Do you know what you’re feeling right now?”

Is there a word for this? Feeling like he’s falling down down down, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. No handholds to grab onto. Even if there were he wouldn’t be strong enough to hold on. Nothing around him but people laughing as they watch him fall. People who would kick him off any ledge of safety he’d find, because this is all he’s good for. Getting hurt and falling. Getting hurt and falling over and over again.

***

“She was a gymnast.” Drawl in Clint’s voice from the alcohol Tony made him. Something that smells of mango. Foggy said the glass had an umbrella in it. “And the things she could do with her legs…”

Things started to get better when Clint came back after supper, smelling dirty and sounding exhausted. Foggy said he’d also had kind of a crap day, and that’s all the excuse most of the group needed to start drinking. Even though he’s not allowed to drink, it’d been fun to listen to them laugh and tease each other. Then they started to talk about their first times having sex, and that tight uncomfortable feeling is back in his stomach.

Foggy’s still wearing his suit jacket. Maybe if Matt can fit in the space between it and Foggy he can feel safe.

“Whoa.” Clinking of ice against glass. “Careful of my drink buddy.”

Matt springs away, shoulders slumping. A lump grows in his throat. He just wanted… He just needed…

“Guys,” Steve whispers from the other end of the large couch. “Let’s keep things G rated today, OK?”

“I swear those puppy eyes are made of actual puppies and rainbows, and I don’t know, unicorns or something.” Foggy sighs. “I wasn’t rejecting you bud. Come here.”

He’s asking for a lot. He knows that. Foggy said that hugs are always OK, but what if he changes his mind? Warily he tucks close into Foggy’s side. Foggy’s arms wrap around him. The deep pressure isn’t as much as before Foggy got shot, but it’s still good. It’s only when some of the tension fades from his shoulders that he realises all the muscles in his body are wound tight enough to ache.

Warmth of Foggy’s cheek resting on the top of his head. “Think you can talk to me now bud? Try telling me what’s wrong?”

Words vanish in his brain, buried under an avalanche of hurt, pain, emotion. What’s the emotion? What’s it called? Digging into the satchel he pulls out the quick intervention sheet. He’s back here again, searching through the cards with emotions on them, hoping to jump start his mind into figuring out what he’s feeling.

Cold even though his body is warm. Trapped even though he’s not. Like running away and hiding even though no one’s chasing him. Scared is the closest. He’s been scared a lot lately. He shows Foggy the card.

“Good job bud.” Foggy’s warmth moves a little away. Then there’s Bucky’s breathing. Strange metal against cloth as he hands Foggy something. Soft blanket wrapped around him. Foggy’s arms back around him and the blanket. “Think you can try telling me what you’re scared of?”

What isn’t he scared of. That would be an easier question. There are cards for this in the PECS book. It takes a while to choose one. To reduce this maddening confusing terror into a single word. In the end it’s not quite right. He’s not sure of all the things he’s afraid of, or how to explain them. One card sends a spike of fear through his chest. There’s a memory of silk sheets rumpled beneath him. His hands fisted in rough cotton of Steve’s pyjama top. Trying to find the words to ask them to _‘Please don’t let them get me. Please please don’t let them get me.’_

‘Enemy.’

“They’re in jail, remember?” Foggy sounds like he’s said this more times than Matt remembers hearing it. “They can’t get to you.”

But you can’t lock the whole world in jail Foggy. And the whole world is the enemy.

***

_“You’re ruining my fantasy of getting into his pants.”_

Lucky makes a anxious warbling sound in his throat. Pain as he scrapes a paw against Matt’s pyjama bottoms.

_“No bruises.” Hard note to the woman’s voice. “Boss wants him ready to show as soon as possible. Got several customers lining up to see him.”_

The furniture in the communal lounge is padded. The marble counters in the kitchen area are edged with rubber. The dining table is curved shapes and soft wood. The once easy to break chairs are replaced with padded leather. He knows already that none of the drawers will open for him in the night with no one around. The air vent above the kitchen table will stay sealed closed if he tries to go up there again. The elevator will only take him here or to the floor with his and Foggy’s, Steve’s and Bucky’s, and Sam’s apartments.

_“No one’s coming. You think you’re the first bitch we’ve broken in? No one around here’s deluded enough to give a fuck, apart from you.”_

All this flashes through his head as his hands flap and he tries to figure out a way to make the thoughts in his head go away.

 _Bubblegum laughs the loudest. He sounds proud. “He’s a good fuck,” he says, eager. Trying to impress. “Aren’t you whore?” He pats Matt’s cheek_.

He could’ve woken Foggy, but he’d just give deep pressure and call Steve to hold him if he starts hurting himself too badly. Deep pressure is good, but it’s not enough to stop the clawing scared feelings in his belly and chest. This is too much. It’ll never stop. He needs something to make it stop.

_“He’s lost a ton of weight. I still wouldn’t shove him out of bed though.”_

If he bites someone will come to stop him. And biting is blunt. It takes too much time. He needs something big.

_The world tilts. His head swims. Rough grazing against his legs. Being dragged? Wright grunts at the effort. “What do you think they want to do with him?”_

_"Then open your fucking mouth. Don't act like you're too good for this. The whole world saw you gagging on Jones's dick.”_

_“You’ll what?” The laughing man asks. “Set your toothless devil on us? Maybe he was something once, but he’s nothing now. Look at him cowering. My Grandma could beat him up with one hand behind her back.”_

_“They’ve got the money.” The woman doesn’t sound like she cares. “What they do is up to them.”_

He needs something to make all of the noise in his head stop.

 _“You’re just as pathetic as that video.” Wright laughs. He presses down until Matt’s bruised cheek is flat against the table. “I saved it to my hard-drive. Watched it a dozen times. You scrapping and scrabbling and swearing you’ll kill all of them. Then you go limp. You stop fighting back. Just lay there. That’s the part I_ _always whack off to.”_

_“You deserve this.” Pain, and no, stop, please_

_“No that’s the guy. You know the guy. The one from that sex video thing everyone was talking about.”_

_“Don’t act like you’re good enough for anything else. It was always going to come to this. If it wasn’t us, it’d be someone else. Anyone who saw the video knows you’re broken. Good for nothing but spreading your legs.”_

He needs something to make everything stop.

His feet run from the kitchen counter to the doorway that leads to the rest of the communal floor. If he gets the angle right…

Something hard plastic and fast moving under his foot. He tumbles, his head grazing the door frame instead of hitting full on. Slap of his palms against wooden floor as he falls down. Warmth on his scalp followed by sharp stab of pain. It’s not enough.

Bright sickening fear coils in his stomach. It squashes his lungs, making it harder to breathe. If he had a knife…

Hands on him, pulling him upright. When - when did Tony get here? The man’s muscles are tense. Movements rough as he manoeuvres Matt toward the elevator.

Shock lets him be dragged partway to the - is it the elevator? Before the fear twists inside him, turning sharper. Everything hurts, and it’s Tony who’s not letting him stop it.

Spinning around, he breaks out of the hold. The world’s too hazy to dodge before Tony’s hands grab Matt’s wrists, pulling them across his chest in the same way Steve does sometimes. So Matt’s hugging himself. Not much room to manoeuvre. Few moves he can do without hurting Tony.

The fear pushes up to his throat, making him want to scream.

_“You’re just as pathetic as that video.” Wright laughs._

***

“What the hell brought this on?” Tony asks from outside the medical room. His feet pace quick and clumsy around Steve’s, Foggy’s, and Sam’s heartbeats. “Jarvis said he had a nightmare and went down to the communal lounge, but the only time he reacted like this was after that brilliantly devised trip to see that asshole he calls Old Spice. Nothing’s happened. He’s been back for weeks and nothing bad has happened to him. He even got a kitten. Who tries to kill themselves after they get a kitten?”

“He was acting off yesterday.” Tightness in Steve’s voice. “I should’ve realised something like this might happen.”

“Seriously what does he need?” Fabric shifting. Some kind of large movement from Tony. “New toys? Extra fuzzy blankets? He liked Catskills, right? Maybe another holiday would do him good.”

Foggy’s heart beats so fast. “Was he really trying to kill himself?”

“I watched the footage.” Steve sighs. “He thought carefully about the angle. If Tony hadn’t directed that vacuum bot to trip him up… If Matt didn’t get unaware enough of his surroundings when panicked for that to actually work…”

“I thought we agreed not to leave him on a floor alone after he refused to sign his contract to life again,” Foggy says, voice strained.

“Hey, I put away my crap and made my way up there as soon as Jarvis said the puppy was on his way down.” Tony’s feet stop pacing. “Don’t forget, you were designated babysitter tonight.”

“Guys, stop.” Some gesture from Sam. “This isn’t helping. Steve, you can’t blame yourself for this man. For one thing, it’s a bad example for Matt. Personalisation is one of his big problems, remember? For another it’s not healthy for you. Stop stewing about what happened and concentrate on what we can do now. Tony, you need to back down. Take a deep breath. This isn’t something you fix with gifts. I know you know that. And it’s no one’s fault. Foggy, I know you find this kind of thing difficult. If you can’t be around Matt for a while I understand, but I’d really like you to stay in the tower if you can. He’s going to freak out if you leave.”

Skin against skin. Foggy rubs his face? “Jess said it should be safe.”

“We know it’s pretty safe out there now,” Sam says. “But Matt doesn’t. We’re trying to help with that. Jones keeps him informed of Fisk’s operation and what happened to all the people who hurt him. Bucky and the rest of us are trying to help him see the flaws in his distorted thinking, but this is wedged deep. Think about it this way. Night after night he went out and stopped people committing crimes. From the looks of things he hadn’t faced any big players since Fisk, so those people he beat up weren’t that different from anyone he’d meet in the street during the day. Anonymous strangers. Nothing for him to worry about. Then he meets these people not much different from anyone else. They get the upper hand and turn into monsters in his mind. Now his mind starts thinking, what’s to stop every other stranger he meets turning into a monster too? It’s very common for people attacked by strangers to develop similar thought patterns.”

Fabric against paint. Steve leaning against a wall? “The video played a part in it as well. I don’t think he feels as judged by strangers anymore, but he’s definitely still self conscious. Knowing that so many people watched it hurt him. It’s making him distrustful. Jarvis has done a great job helping him feel safe in the tower, but we haven’t made much progress helping him feel safe outside. When we went to re-home the kittens it was like he was preparing to enter a battlefield. If that little girl from Clint’s apartment block hadn’t put her name forward for the male kittens I think we would’ve ended up taking them back here as well. The whole experience in jail left him feeling even more unsafe. The therapy you’re doing together is helping him be less anxious when you leave the room, but we haven’t seen what happens when you leave the tower. I don’t think now is the right time to find out.”

Slowly Matt pulls his bare feet onto the exam table, away from Lucky’s lapping. Small stabs of reality make it past the numbness. What happened?

Foggy sounds tired. “He was getting better there, wasn’t he? For a while at least?”

“Recovery isn’t a straight line.” Flesh against fabric as Sam squeezes Foggy’s shoulder. “It’s messy, especially in cases with multiple traumas like Matt. It’s going forward. It’s going backwards. It’s going backwards to go forwards sometimes. Think about his possible age regressions. Seems like a bad sign, right? Or it could be sign that he’s trying to be more open. It could be a coping mechanism a heck of a lot healthier than self harm or extreme dissociation. He’s talking about his past more. It could be that his mind thinks he’s in a safe enough place to start dredging up old memories for him to work his way through, and any possible age regression is being invoked by emotions brought up by that. When he acts younger he tends to try more things. He tends to communicate more. How much of that is true age regression and how much is just feeling vulnerable is hard to tell. And progress isn’t easy. Sometimes he’ll need to take some temporary steps backwards to recover from steps forwards. Going into jail. That was self destructive behaviour. And that’s something else we need to keep in mind. I believe he’s trying to get better, but his programming has been screwy a while. Sometimes it’s going to lead him down some dark paths.”

“Dark thoughts lead to dark actions.” Steve sighs. “But that doesn’t mean he won’t get better. It just takes a while. Seems like it takes forever sometimes. You should rest Foggy. We’ll keep you updated.”

Tapping against plastic from Tony. “Pepper and Brucie are up. Bruce says he’ll give you a massage. Pepper has face-masks, tequila, the movie Hairspray, and Page on speed dial.”

Movement as the door opens. Sam’s footsteps enter. Sound outside quietens as the door closes behind him. “Hi Matt, how are you feeling?”

Numb, and also like the whole world is humming with tension. Like people are going to start grabbing and screaming at him. Like he wants to hide. Like he wants to go away, go away, go away. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he hugs them tight to his chest.

“You’re shaking. Are you cold?”

The silk pyjamas don’t lend much protection against the cold of the medical floor. But this cold is deeper than that.

“Here. I’m going to wrap a dressing gown around you.” Rough flannel placed around his shoulders. Still warm from Sam’s body heat. “Your satchel is on your left if you want to use your PECS or your computer, or you can sign. Can you tell me what happened tonight?”

What did happen? He had a bad dream and went to the communal lounge to try and calm down, and the world pressed in on him.

“Are you worried about something?”

Not worried. Scared. Scared of everything.

Long pause before Sam speaks again. “If you are worried about something, you don’t need to be. We can solve most things. If you’re getting too anxious about the operation, it doesn’t need to happen yet. We can move it.”

His fingers clutch at the flannel dressing gown. It’s too rough and scratchy, but it’s something solid he can hold onto.

“OK,” Sam says, and he doesn’t sound mad. “Could you answer one thing? I promise, only one, then you can go to your spot on the couch or Bucky and Steve’s apartment. Matt, are you thinking about trying to kill yourself again?”

Breath catches in his throat. He curls up tighter.

“Matt?” Sam’s voice is calm like usual, his heart steady. “I promise, whatever you say I won’t be angry.”

A nod against his knees. The world is too dangerous and tense. The pain in his tooth and head doesn’t help. “I don’t want to be here.”

“Then let’s go to Bucky and Steve’s apartment. Or did you want to go to your apartment or the communal lounge.”

Pressing the heels of his hands to the sides of his head, he rocks slightly. “No. I don’t want to be here.”

Moment of silence before there’s fabric against metal of Sam sitting on the exam table beside him. “Where do you want to go?”

Foggy’s old apartment is gone. Matt’s old apartment is gone too, and it was dead dogs and unsafe anyway. The thought of their old office brings a feeling of safety and purpose before he remembers that one’s surrounded by people who break in and ruin things and stare. There’s nowhere safe. He shrugs, still rocking.

“What you’re feeling, it feels like it’s going to last forever, but it’s not.” Sam’s heart beats steady. “Remember what to tell yourself. These feelings will pass. These may be horrible thoughts, but they’re just thoughts, I don’t need to act on them.”

“This is different.” Matt shakes his head over and over, too many times. “Nothing’s going to solve this.”

“I’ve been there.” For the first time in the conversation Sam’s heart does something different. Slows. Sad. “Losing Riley I lost my whole world. Every time it felt like my problems were insurmountable. Like suicide was the only way out of them. And you know what? Every time I was wrong. It takes time, and it’s hard, painful, but you can get through it. If you work with us we can help you get through it.”

‘You get back up,’ his Dad says in his head, but he’s not sure he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings =
> 
> Suicide attempt and thoughts. Usual scary place that is Matt's mind. Mentions of self harm. Mentions of past neglect. Overheard conversation of women objectifying a man. Extreme emotions. 
> 
> As usual tell me if you think something should be added to this list.


	58. Chapter 58

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'll come back in a couple of days to add story notes and trigger warnings. Sorry, mega busy right now.

Matt wakes up in Foggy’s empty bed with the xanax worn off.

Heaving himself up onto his elbows, he blinks a long moment. Then his feet find the edge of the bed and stand. Voices outside talking about medications. Lucky lightly snoring on the bed. His legs remember the path out of Foggy’s bedroom, past the voices on their couch, to the front door of the apartment next to which they keep their shoes.

Crouching, his fingers fumble a shoe lace loose from one of his dress shoes. Getting to his feet, he walks back to Foggy’s bedroom.

He’s looping it around the door handle when Sam pulls it open. Matt doesn’t bother trying to hold onto it. He feels empty. Like he succeeded in killing himself last night and his body just hasn’t noticed.

Sound of Sam pocketing the shoe lace. Rush of air as he steps into the room, closing the door behind him. His warmth lowers to where Matt sits on the floor. “What are you trying to do Matt?”

“Give me more xanax,” Matt says instead of answering. “I want to sleep again.”

“I don’t think that’s good for you.” Sound of Sam settling back against the wall, like he plans on staying a long time.

Matt holds out a hand. “Then give me the shoe lace.”

“You’ve been scared a lot lately,” Sam says. “Is that why you don’t want to be here?”

He’s been scared a very long time. Forever it feels like. He drops his hand.

“Is there something we can do to help you be less scared?”

“The shoe lace,” Matt says. “Or a bottle of xanax and some alcohol.”

“You may not believe this, but the way you’re feeling now is going to change.” Sam sounds so sure of that. “You’re not alone Matt. I’m here for you, and so are Foggy and the others. We can get through this one step at a time.”

***

“Is it people?” Bucky asks as he scrubs shampoo into Matt’s hair. “That what you’re scared of?”

Matt sits inside a giant bathtub, swimming trunks on for modesty. Someone has to be in the same room as him for a while. Including the bathroom. Just until he starts feeling better, they say. Then he’ll go back to having someone close by while Jarvis monitors him.

As if he’s ever going to feel better.

He tries not to lean back into Bucky’s hands. Tries not to enjoy this. He’s not sure how he got in this position. Only that Bucky came into the bathroom with him after someone suggested he shower. He’d made it as far as clambering into Steve and Bucky’s enormous bathtub, then sat there, too tired to do anything else. He shrugs a shoulder.

Bucky’s hands massage his scalp, the metal hand covered in plastic. It’s strange to feel something nice when everything else is so horrible. “Any people in particular?”

Another shrug. His fingers skim across the rubber mat beneath him. There are shapes on it. He wants to know what they are, and that’s strange too. Not long ago he didn’t want anything except to go away.

“All people like before?” Bucky’s hands leave his hair. He wants them back. “What you scared they’ll do?”

“Wright said…” The words stutter and die.

“Yeah pal?”

Matt just shakes his head.

***

Steve’s hand rubs Matt’s back as he drinks the smoothie Pepper said Tony made for him. His soft voice says Matt’s doing a ‘really good job.’

Sam walks into Bucky and Steve’s apartment. Very slight sound of him mouthing something. Matt only picks up one word. ‘Natasha?’

Movement of Steve nodding. It’s only been Steve, Sam, and Bucky this morning. Except for Pepper dropping the smoothie off. Steve said the others weren’t mad or disappointed. They don’t want to overwhelm him with people when he’s feeling upset, and some of them are upset themselves because they don’t like it when he gets hurt.

The dark heavy feeling isn’t as bad. Odd because nothing has changed. His problems are still there. He places the plastic cup on the table.

“Finished?” Steve asks.

Matt nods, even though it makes his head throb.

“Great job.” Sam has a smile in his voice like he means it, and Steve squeezes his shoulder. “I know you’re having a hard day today, so I appreciate you making the effort to keep eating.”

Ducking his head, Matt flushes at the praise. Warmth grows in his chest, as painful as it is nice.

Flesh against wood as Sam sits in one of the other chairs around Steve’s and Bucky’s dining room table. “Can you tell us what you’re worried about?”

The warmth rushes away. Matt shakes his head.

“Jarvis said Wright told you he was going to hurt you.” Steve’s hand stays on his shoulder. A comforting weight. “Is that what you’re scared of?”

That’s a very small part. It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell them. It’s just that his mouth doesn’t seem to have the right words. Deciding to share everything had seemed so simple. Actually sharing is difficult. You need to remember to share, like he’d forgotten to do with the scared trapped feelings the elevator triggered. You need to know when something is important enough to share, like his tooth pain. You need you have the words like his mind doesn’t have now.

Getting to his feet, he picks at the hoodie that smells like Foggy. Bucky gave it to him after his shower. He points at Bucky’s bedroom. A question.

“You can rest in there if you want,” Steve says. “Or Toothless is already in my room if you want him.”

Something in Matt’s heart clenches. Toothless has Foggy’s heartbeat. His hand wavers as it points at Steve’s room.

“Go ahead.” Plastic against flesh as Steve grabs Matt’s cup. “Bucky should be back up in an hour. I’ve told him to bring crafts and puzzles with him. And maybe you could try eating something again? You’re a little behind on your meals today.”

***

“Matt.” It doesn’t sound like it’s the first time Fiona’s said his name. “Can you try grounding yourself?”

Silk sheets beneath him. Harder mattress than his own. The bed smells like Steve and Bucky. Soft in his hand that’s the marble maze. He concentrates on figuring out which way the marble should go next.

Wet of Lucky’s nose nudging his arm. The dog seems confused today. Whining and nudging, and sometimes just lying beside him with tense muscles like the dog doesn’t know what to do.

“Everyone seems upset today.” Something evasive in Fiona’s heart. “Can you explain what happened?”

“I want to go away,” Matt mutters. His fingers keep guiding the marble into stitched cloth walls. “No one will let me.”

“Oh.” Casual note to her voice, like this is an every day conversation. “Why do you want to go away? I thought you liked it here?”

“I don’t like it anywhere.” Crossing his legs on the bed he rocks. Slight movements.

“What don’t you like about here?” No accusation to the words.

There’s a lot that he likes here, isn’t there? He vaguely remembers prison. Wanting so much to be back here with soft blankets, Lucky, Foggy, everyone. “It’s not safe.”

“OK,” Fiona says. “Is there a way we can make it safer?”

That’s not it. He taps the heels of his hands against his head. It makes the raw skin behind the bandage of his head throb. Fiona doesn’t understand. No one seems to understand. “It won’t be safe. Nowhere is safe.”

“Is that why you want to go away?” Soft sound of Fiona sitting on the bed, the corner furthest from Matt. “Because you don’t think anywhere is safe?”

There’s no think about it. He knows this as strongly as he knows Foggy is the best human being in the world, and Thurgood Marshall was right that you must dissent from apathy. Shuffle as Lucky presses closer. Matt stops hitting himself to stroke the dog’s fur.

“Tony said Wright was shouting at you when he found you. Did Wright say something that is making you feel unsafe?”

“That’s not it.” The words devolve into humming for a moment. Tension coils around him, suffocating. “You’re getting it all wrong.”

“Explain it to me.”

But he can’t. The words are all tangled up. Most of it is fear that cuts as deep as Nobu’s knives. It’s feelings. Nightmares full of hiding and always being found. Of walking to work surrounded by strangers, and those strangers turning on him. The closest he can get is “Nothing is safe.”

“What happens when nothing is safe?” Sound of Fiona getting her clipboard out. “Can you try telling Lucky?”

The feeling that something terrible is going to happen rises up, choking him. He strokes Lucky’s smooth head. “Everything goes wrong. Everything goes bad.”

“If you stay here, then what’s going to happen?”

It’s difficult. The words are too tangled in emotions. Pulling the plastic of the PECS book toward him, he skims the pages. His hands shake. There’s a page he’s supposed to use when he’s hurt. It has different kinds of pain, a scale, parts of the body that could be hurt. Ripping off every card, he places them between him and Fiona. The cards help him find the right words. ‘I don’t want to be hurt again. I can’t. _I can’t_.”

“And Wright said you were going to be hurt again?”

This is another thing he knows. “People hurt me. It happened and it’s going to happen again. And I _can’t_.”

***

Like always Fiona ends the session with something positive. This time she invites Sam in, and Sam tells her about the cake he and Matt were planning to make Steve for his birthday. Fruit cake because fruit is Steve’s favourite. Lots of layers so he can have a different flavour on each one.

Matt doesn’t join in, but it feels like he does. Fiona saying it sounds like a great idea, and she’s sure Steve will like it. Sam laughing as he tells Fiona about one of their planning sessions. “I asked Matt why he wanted to make such a big cake. He gives me this look like he’s not sure whether I have two brain cells to rub together and says ‘Steve eats a _lot_.’”

A tingling feeling had started in his stomach. Wanting to speak. Wanting to join in and decide which layers should go where. Whether to cover it in icing or keep it bare.

Lying under the covers on Steve’s bed, the feeling is gone.

After Fiona’s session he has theraplay with Foggy. Time for just them together. Steve warned him that might not happen today, but lying here in rest time that should be Foggy time ties his insides in knots.

Is Foggy mad at him, or is he really just upset?

It’s not like Matt wants to leave Foggy. It’s just that he can’t be here. People are going to hurt him again, because that’s what happens now. If he survives then Foggy will be there to pick up the pieces. Watching Matt fall apart hurt Foggy so much the first time around. He shouldn’t go through that again.

And Matt can’t go through it at all. Not again.

Curling up, he bites, sending screams of pain from his tooth. Teeth are blunt, but it’s not like he has better options. If he gets out from under the covers Steve or Bucky will come in here. He tries to tear at his wrist like he did Bubblegum’s thumb, but it doesn’t work. Maybe there’s something set up in your brain, stopping you biting so deeply. Nails work better, scratching, nipping, tearing until he can taste blood, warm on his tongue.

Cold as Bucky yanks away the covers. Soft whine of Lucky by Bucky’s side. “C’mon pal, don’t do that.”

Useless anyway. It’d take hours of work to bleed enough to never wake up. He rolls onto his back.

Time drifts as there’s steady pad of Steve’s footsteps, smell of plastic and antiseptic in his hands. Stinging and gentle, gentle, as Bucky cleans the scratches and wraps them in soft cotton pads and scratchy gauze.

“Ned’s here,” Steve says, an hour, a second, a year later. “He wants to do a puzzle with you.”

Puzzles sound exhausting. Ned sounds exhausting. Everything sounds exhausting. Turning away from Steve’s voice, he curls around Toothless.

***

It’s later when Ned’s voice talking about past Christmases and Thanksgivings is gone that Matt sits up in Steve’s bed, and whacks his head against the corner of the headboard as hard as he can.

Rush of dizziness before there’s fast footsteps and arms with Steve’s heartbeat scoop him up. The world moves fast around him.

It takes until there’s scratchy cloth of Steve and Bucky’s couch beneath him for his mind to catch up with it. “I hate you!”

“No you don’t.” Natasha’s voice. When did she get here? “You’re just very scared and anxious right now.”

Soft blanket wrapped around him by Bucky. That helps him feel a little better. Click of Bucky opening the first aid kit. Warmth flooding the itchy gauze on the right side of his head.

The couch dips as Steve sits on Matt’s other side. “I think you should stay out here with us. You’re not using time under the duvet to rest.”

Hunching his shoulders, he holds out a hand toward Lucky. The dog enthusiastically licks his fingers. Gross, but at least the dog isn’t forcing him to do anything.

“You’re mulling over the junk that’s in your head.” Shuffling sound. Nat has some kind of bag. Looking through it? “When you follow a negative thought process without challenging it, you can wind yourself up. You’re making yourself feel worse.”

Matt shakes his head. “You don’t understand.”

Steve’s hand rests on his shoulder. “Explain it to us Matt. Make us understand.”

“Wright said everyone will want to hurt me now because of the video.” Now Fiona helped him find the words, it feels like he has too many of them. They’re all squeezed in his throat, trying to get out. “That’s true! Don’t fucking lie to me and say it’s not! Wright saw the video and wanted to hurt me. The lady said people were lining up to hurt me. That’s why Fisk sold me. Old Spice said Fisk was going to bring me to them so they can hurt me when I do something Fisk doesn’t like. And the man who attacked Karen wanted to hurt me. People, they talk about me sometimes. I hear them. And I don’t want - I don’t want!”

“Matt.” Steve sounds stricken. “I’m not going to let that-”

“Steve. “ Warning in Bucky’s voice. His hands gently prise the gauze and cotton pads from Matt’s head. “Don’t be a dumbass. You know that doesn’t help.”

“Matt, I want you to take my hand so you know I’m telling you the truth.” Nat’s warmth crouches in front of him. Light sound of her putting something on the carpet.

Breathing too fast, Matt does as he’s told. Her hand is small in his own, but not delicate. Patterns of calloused skin that talk of punching, firearms, cuts.

“We can’t know what’s going to happen day to day. If I were to promise you’ll never be hurt again, I’d be lying. We can’t guarantee what happens in life. What I can guarantee is the chance of you being raped again is much smaller than you think. Remember overgeneralisation?”

Overgeneralisation. A cognitive distortion. “One thing goes wrong, and you think everything is going to go wrong.”

Bucky pats at Matt’s head with something that stings. “Trauma, it overshadows everything. Damn hard to see the light when you’re surrounded by shadow. You’re thinking of the bad moments and thinking that’s all there’s gonna be. Remember when we talked about people who didn’t hurt us? This is the same thing. Not everything in your life was people hurting you, and not everything in your life will be people hurting you.”

Matt frowns. “Wright said-”

“Wright was full of shit.” Cool cream rubbed over the new and old cuts on his forehead. “You gonna trust him, or you gonna trust us?”

It’s not that easy. “But I know it’s true.”

Nat squeezes Matt’s hand. “Wright had his own distortions. For whatever reason he wanted power over you. Saying other people wanted to hurt you was his way to justify hurting you. A way to feel less bad about doing it himself.”

He remembers that. Fiona said Baseball Bat and the others did similar things. No one wants to be the bad guy. But that doesn’t mean Wright wasn’t telling the truth as well. “The guy who attacked Karen wanted to hurt me.”

“Rape victims are harassed,” Nat says. “And there are people who see them as targets. I’m not saying that doesn’t happen. What I’m telling you Matt, is most people won’t hurt you. And we can work on ways to make sure the few who want to, can’t. We’re already doing that. Stark has been going crazier than usual building defence tech. Pepper’s had more meetings with security staff this week than she usually does in a month. Jarvis runs hypothetical scenarios every day, looking for improvements he can make to his security systems. You’ve lost strength, but you’re still a great fighter. I saw the footage of you during the riot. Nice moves. And the way you managed to get out of the restraints and bruise up those guys was impressive. If they hadn’t drugged you, they wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Strange. What he remembers of the moments between the van and waking up in the tower are very different to the way Nat describes it. He got out of the belt restraint and ankle cuffs. He remembers that. But he can’t remember bruising anyone.

“And you’ve got us.” Steve’s heart beats truth through Matt’s shoulder. “We’re not going to let - we’re going to do everything in our power to keep you safe.”

“Violence makes me feel out of control.” Stickiness of butterfly stitches over the pain on his head. Bucky’s movements are careful. Gentle. “But if I have to commit any to keep you safe, I won’t regret a second of it.”

“It’s going to happen again.” Why don’t they understand? “I know it.”

“Listen to my heart Matt.” Nat’s heart stays steady, beating truth. “We’re going to work together and do our best to make sure that doesn’t happen. I talked to Fisk today. He’s a smart guy. Knows when to back down. He’ll be a problem for us in the future, but for now he won’t make any moves against you.”

What games did Nat need to play to make that happen?

“And the business I have no knowledge of is over.” Smile in Steve’s voice. “I hear Nat had a productive holiday, but she’s done so she’s coming back home.”

The news jolts awake a flicker of excitement. Hearing Nat around the tower every day is a nice thought. “Really?”

“Camping was fun, but I’ve swatted enough flies. The only ones left are too far away. I’ve got contacts I trust dealing with them.”

Does that mean… “Is Anna not in danger now?”

“She’s back managing the store.” Sound of Nat’s hair moving as she tilts her head. “Although she was never in danger. She’s as good of a shot as Bucky, and she and The Punisher make a formidable pair. Together they could wipe the floor with most of Shield.”

Steve groans. “I’m duty bound to report unsanctioned missions from members of my team. The whole point of you leaving was to give me plausible deniability if anything came out. That doesn’t work if you tell me what happened anyway.”

“Cool it old timer.There’s no law against shooting a few cans outside city limits if you take the proper precautions. Why?” Nat’s voice turns innocent. “What did you think I was talking about?”

Steve just sighs. His warmth leans away before returning with something that smells like plastic.

Heavy placed across Matt’s lap. The weighted blanket. He smooths his hands along the silk. It scrapes wrong against the gauze on his wrist. Annoying.

“You’re as fixed up as you’re gonna be.” Click of Bucky closing up the first aid kit. “Quit messing with that gauze. It needs to stay there a bit longer.”

But it’s itchy. Matt sulks.

Cloth against leather as Nat sits the other side of Steve on the V shaped couch. “Matt, you’re feeling better right now, aren’t you?”

The dark thoughts feel further away, but at Nat’s words they come rushing back.

“Some of getting through this is going to be trying to challenge your thoughts before they wind you up,” Bucky says. “But most is about distractions. Something to make you feel better and take your mind off things. Like Sam says, these feelings will pass. Takes time.”

Steve’s hand is a constant reassuring weight on his shoulder. “Bucky uses my little pony to get through his bad patches. I draw. I want you to choose something that works for you. Crafts, puzzles, baking, your dinosaurs, books, movies. Something you can focus on so you don’t dwell so much.”

It feels like a lot of choices. Too many.

“I have a book I think you’ll like.” Smell of old book as Nat passes it to Steve. “Steve will be happy to read it to you.”

Bucky’s breath catches, but Steve’s stays steady. Matt nods cautiously. Hopefully it won’t be the book he and Nat are reading about the girl who got hurt. Getting angry at the way the girl was treated is cleansing, but he’s not ready to be that upset right now. He’s already got enough upset.

Steve’s arm loops over his shoulders. Bucky’s weight leans against his other side. And it’s comfortable to sit there surrounded by heartbeats as Steve reads.

“One day Uncle Peder made a little wooden horse.”

***

Matt wakes up to the bed shaking and an arm pulling him backwards.

No time to panic before he recognises Steve’s heartbeat. “It’s OK. Just stay here.”

The mattress keeps shaking beneath him. What’s happening?

Steve’s warmth moves to the other side of the bed. Lots of movement there. Strange noises like muffled screaming. Bucky’s heartbeat racing. “Shush Buck. You’re fine. It’s going to stop soon.”

No noises that say Bucky hears him. Tense muscles. Short sharp jerks in the man’s head, arms, and legs. It takes a few moments for the picture to make sense. A seizure? “Can I help?”

“Sure.” Steve’s heart is fast too, but not as fast as it should be. “Keep Lucky away. Sometimes he tries to be helpful, and Buck’s not in control of himself now. That metal arm can do damage, even by accident.”

Lucky’s paws are padding around the bed. Caught between going to Matt or Bucky.

Slipping off the bed, Matt calls him over, holding him close. He wants to ask questions, but he doesn’t want to distract Steve from Bucky.

It’s several seconds of short sharp movements and Steve’s soft voice. He sounds as soothing as he does when Matt’s having a panic attack. Saying things like “It’s OK Buck,” and “Just a few more seconds.”

Then the movements change to shaky. Sound of Bucky actually breathing.It’s a good sound. Gentle sound of movement and light thump. Bucky trying to lift his arms and failing.

“Relax Buck.” Bucky’s hair shifting as Steve places a hand on it. “Stand down. I’ve got you.”

Bucky’s arms stay on the bed.

“You know who I am?”

Rustle of silk sheets as Bucky nods.

“OK Buck.” Flesh against flesh and fabric. Steve checking Bucky over? “You’re fine jerk. Get some shut eye. I think I’ve got some monitors I can dig up.”

Bucky takes a deep breath and his muscles relax.

Slowly Matt crawls back on the bed. “Can I help?”

Wood against wood as Steve rummages through the drawers of the bedside cabinet. “I’m going to put something on him that will measure his vitals, like the one you used before. But he should be fine now.”

This doesn’t seem like something he can be fine after. “Does he have these a lot?”

“Not often.” Wood against wood of cabinet doors closing. Click of it locking. Sticky sound of Steve putting something on Bucky’s chest. “Me and Buck, we’re fast healers. But he had a lot of brain damage when he came to us. Most people wouldn’t be able to heal that kind of damage, but he managed it.”

Bucky’s heart is slow in sleep. He must be exhausted.

“If he’s healed.” Matt shifts closer, until he can touch Bucky’s warm hand. “Why did that happen?”

“Some of the doctors think there’s scar tissue so small we can’t see it.” Sound of blankets pulled up to Bucky’s chest. “Others think the seizures Bucky’s having now are a different kind. The damage healed by the time he was here six months. At the beginning most of his seizures were partials. Blanking out for a few seconds. Odd movements. Hard to tell apart from his dissociations. When they started to lead to tonic clonics we noticed. Only, some of his tonic clonics don’t show up on the scans they did. After he healed, most of the partials went away, but he’d still get tonic clonics that show up as normal brain activity. So technically he has two kinds of seizures. Frontal lobe seizures, and PNES.”

“PNES?”

Dipping of the mattress as Steve sits by Bucky’s feet. “A fancy name for ‘I have no clue what’s causing this.’ Basically it looks like a seizure from the outside, but the brain doesn’t show the electrical activity a seizure does. It’s linked to PTSD and other psychological problems. He’s had maybe one or two frontal lobe seizures since his brain healed. The non epileptic seizures took longer to slow down. Therapy helped. He hasn’t had one for months. We can ask when he wakes up, but we’ll probably find out he had a nightmare and that’s what triggered it. That and he’s been through a lot of stress lately.”

Oh. Letting go of Bucky’s hand, Matt hugs his legs to his chest. Scrambling of Lucky climbing on the bed.

Steve’s warmth comes closer. “It’s not your fault. I think it was mainly what happened with Wright. Bucky saw that Wright hurt you and he got really mad. Tony said he had to restrain him to stop Bucky killing him. Bucky. He doesn’t react well to knowing he’s capable of violence. It does bad things to his head.”

Matt pats Lucky’s head when the dog gets close enough. “Bruce said he wanted to make chocolate hazelnut spread with me. I could make Bucky some?”

Happy in Steve’s heart, and tired in his voice. “I think that will help. Now what about you? Do you want me to read you some more of that book to help you fall asleep?”

They’d read three chapters. The ghost of his Dad floating around him as Steve spoke the words. Then he’d felt good enough to try a puzzle with Nat and eat every bit of food put in front of him. He wants more, but… “Jarvis could read it? He doesn’t get tired like you do.”

“I’m not too tired to read you a chapter Matt.” Truth in Steve’s voice. “I promise.”

***

Foggy doesn’t come to the communal lounge for breakfast, and Matt can’t help wondering if it’s because he’s there. But Nat does light yoga with him while Bucky, Steve, and Sam go for a run. Clint gives Matt a giant hug after he agrees to make omelets. Bruce helps him make a chocolate hazelnut butter experiment that turns out to be delicious.

“Bucky really liked it,” Matt tells Fiona in their therapy session. “And I think he’s feeling OK after last night. He says he’s just a little sore.”

Scratching of Fiona’s pen across paper. “You’re doing a good job noticing the positives today. Sometimes when you’re sad you only talk about the bad things that are happening. Then that makes you more upset because you think there are more bad things going on than good things.”

“Mental filter,” he suggests. The carpet in the room with the sand tray is warm under his hands. Mental filter is another cognitive distortion.

Fiona sits on the carpet too, like she usually does when he does. “That’s right. You only see the bad things about a situation and not the good things. You tend to do it more when you’re feeling depressed, like yesterday. It can make it difficult to break out of that depressed mindset. I want you to try watching out for it. If you catch yourself doing it, I want you to try naming a positive about that situation.”

Frowning, he sits back upright. Lucky’s tail beats the carpet next to him. “Sometimes there are no positives.’

“Let’s try. Name a situation where you don’t think there’s a positive.”

Easy. “People are going to hurt me again.”

“You have a large group of supportive friends who will help you if anything like that did happen,” Fiona says. “And will do their best to stop it from happening. There are many people out there who’ve been raped once and haven’t been raped again, despite people knowing about it. You aren’t invincible, but you’re stronger and more capable than you think. You are safer than you think. Less people want to hurt you than you think”

He shifts, still not quite believing it. “Having an operation and having strangers poke and prod.”

“Jarvis and the others will protect you while you sleep.” Truth in Fiona’s heart. “Tony and Pepper trust the medical team to help you. After the operation your tooth won’t hurt.”

It is hurting more and more. The pain radiates throughout his jaw and makes his head throb. “Bubblegum’s not going to spend long in jail.”

“People know what he did.” How is Fiona so good at this? “They know his face. That’ll make it more difficult for him to hurt people again. All of the others are spending a long time in jail.”

That’s true. Baseball Bat’s trial ended last week and he’s spending as long in jail as Old Spice. Bubblegum won his trial by persuading people he was forced into it. So it’s unlikely that any extra footage of him on the other videos will lead to more charges. None of the others have that defence. Every new video should add more to their sentence. “Do you think I’m going to get better?”

Pause before Fiona answers. “I think we need to talk again about what getting better means for you. When we first talked you said you wanted to be exactly how you were before the trauma, and I think we both know that’s a unhealthy goal to aim for. Since then we’ve focused on weekly goals as long term goals are difficult for you. Do you have an idea of where you want these sessions to lead?”

Big question. Giant question. His fingers toy with the hoodie. “I’d like to not be scared so much.”

Pen against paper as she writes something down. Smile in her voice. “I think that’s a great goal. Bold but also realistic. I bet you were tempted to aim to not be scared at all.”

Flushing, Matt nods. “That would be too much to ask of myself. I think I was scared before this, just not so often, or so intensely.”

“It’s going to take a long time,” Fiona says. “But I’m willing to work towards that goal if you are. That’s something the others are concerned about. Sometimes you seem to forget that we’re working with you, not against you.”

Slipping fingers into the hoodie pocket, he finds the marble maze. “I am trying.”

“I know you are.” Fiona doesn’t sound angry. “We’ll work on that too. As for your new goal, we’ll draw up a contract and keep track of our progress. Does that sound OK?”

Matt nods.

“First thing we’ll do is play around with your medication. Now the trials are over I’m hoping we’ll be able to get a better idea of what’s working for you. How did you sleep not taking the new medication last night?”

Not great. “Xanax worked to send me to sleep, but I woke up more than the other one.”

“Steve said you sleepwalked while agitated. You didn’t do that on the last meds. But I’d like to keep you off them for a week if we can. Whenever there’s a sudden surge in suicidal thoughts we need to consider recent medication changes. You haven’t been on them long so you shouldn’t suffer any withdrawal. We also upped your Zoloft dosage a few weeks ago. That’s linked with increases in suicidal thoughts. I’d like to see how you do with just the Zoloft and the Xanax. If seems fine we could think about introducing the medication again, or at least swapping Xanax for a longer lasting benzo while we try to find another alternative.”

The new med, Seroquel isn’t a benzo. It’s used to treat major depressive disorders along with antidepressants, but can also improve sleep, appetite, and energy level as well as mood. The idea is to find the right combination of medication and tactics so he doesn’t need his rescue meds so much. Then either use a benzo much less often than he is, or stop using benzos completely and use seroquel instead on bad days since it seems to have a sedating effect on him. “I - I think I’m ready to sign a contract to life again.”

“That’s good.” Fiona’s heart doesn’t fluctuate much during their therapy sessions. It’s not like Nat’s heart which seems to be trained to be steady and silent. It’s more like Sam’s. Not showing strong emotion because the situation isn’t new to her. Now though there’s a slight speeding up. Happy? In her heart. “Have you thought about what you want your goals for next week to be?”

“Steve’s birthday.” It’s the perfect time to show Steve how grateful he is for making things feel safe when they aren’t. “And Nat says if I gain enough weight I get to start sparring with her again.”

“Those are very good goals.” Scratching of pen. “I think we should also work on something to make sure this kind of episode doesn’t happen again. What do you think?”

“I guess.” Matt shrugs. “But I don’t know how. These things just happen. I know it makes people sad when I act like that, but I just didn’t want to be here so badly that I didn’t think about it.”

“When you reach that level of anxiety it’s going to very difficult for you to redirect yourself,” Fiona says. “It’s like building a bonfire and waiting until the fire is raging before you try patting it out. It’s much easier to stop the flames when they’re small, and even easier when they’re only a few embers. So far your suicide attempts tend to have very little planning. They tend to be driven by emotion. I know the others have been taking note of signs that you’re heading toward one of your meltdowns, and I know you’ve been working hard trying to recognise signs in yourself, but I think we should all sit down together and draw up a list. Signs for you to look out for that mean you’re getting anxious, and signs for others to look for. You have a greater insight into your mind now. I think it will help you and the others.”

That sounds like a good idea.

***

Matt leans back against the couch, shaking his head. “No. You’re wrong.”

Natasha sits next to him. Paper against paper and rush of air as she flaps the book in front of him. “It says it right here.”

Frowning, Matt takes the book, but it’s all glossy pages. His fingers can’t read anything. “That doesn’t happen to kids. Maybe they’d get sad, but not angry. That’s not normal.”

Paper slips through his fingers as Nat takes the book back. “All of these things made Sherman angry. It seemed like Sherman was angry all the time.”

The book is about a kid who sees something bad. He tried to forget it, like Matt tried to. But it didn’t work, like it didn’t work for Matt. A lot of the things the kid goes through reminds him of himself. Not feeling hungry sometimes. Feeling sad or nervous without knowing why. And feeling angry all the time. “That’s not normal.”

Familiar heartbeat from the direction of the elevator. Whoosh sound of the elevator door opening. Foggy’s footsteps walk through it. Foggy!

“Nelson,” Nat says as if this isn’t the most amazing thing that’s happened all day. “Is it normal for a child who’s gone through trauma to develop anger issues?”

Jump of surprise in Foggy’s heart, before his footsteps move over to the couch. No sound of rubber. He’s not using his cane anymore. “Sounds normal to me. Why?”

Matt was angry so much as a child, especially after his Dad died. Nothing about that was normal. “Anger is-” It’s hard to find the right words. “It’s not good. It’s bad.”

Heavy sound of Foggy sitting in an armchair. It hurts a little that he doesn’t choose to sit on the couch by Matt. “Sometimes you act so normal. Then you come out with something screwy.” Rushed breath. “Not that there’s anything wrong with screwy. You know I like it when you’re honest Matt.”

Matt will be the most honest person in the world. If he can figure out how. Maybe Nat has books on that too. “I found a recipe you might like. It’s a smoothie. The web page says it tastes like jelly donuts, but it’s made of raspberries so Sam and Claire won’t yell at you.”

Catch in Foggy’s breathing. Then unsteady footsteps close the gap between the armchair and the couch.

Matt’s muscles tense reflexively before arms close around him. He’s pulled into warmth and wet breathing. Strawberry shampoo, Foggy, strange added scents of nail polish and clay. Oh. A hug.

“We’re discussing reactions to trauma.” Movement of Nat showing Foggy the book.

“Nice. I like the raccoon.” Foggy moves away, but not far. His heart beats faster than it should. It has since he came into the room. Worried? Anxious? “Is it helping?”

“They provide good discussion points that help,” Nat says. “I’m identifying areas we need to focus on. Children’s books can provide complex information in simple forms, so when we come across a gap it’s easier to fill. Especially for the times when complex information is more difficult for Matt to take in. Fiona’s not one hundred percent convinced, but as long as I’m not forcing him to talk about things he’s not ready for, she’s willing to withhold judgement. What do you think Matt?”

He thinks that Steve reading him The Little Wooden Horse makes him feel the closest to safety he has in a long time. Ranting at the older book he’s reading with Nat leaves him tired but cleansed. The funny middle grade books she finds create room to breathe, and usually come with an added lesson for him to think about. And these younger books are the most complex of all because he always ends up talking about things he hasn’t stopped to think about before. “They help I think. And…Nat and Fiona say it’s not bad.”

“Anything that helps right now is a good thing.” Foggy’s hands squeeze his shoulders. “And it’s not like you liking being read to is a new thing. It’s just a different subject matter.”

Accessible course materials could be difficult to get hold of. Foggy reading aloud from textbooks or notes saved him on more than a few occasions. Before finding out about Daredevil, Foggy had the habit of reading out loud interesting articles in newspapers and posters they passed on the street. And audio-books are a necessity if he wants to keep up with some of the books Foggy, Candy, and Karen say he needs to read. “I am sorry about Tuesday night.”

Strange sound in Foggy’s breathing. “I just need to know you’re working with us here Matt.I need to know we’re getting somewhere.”

They are. They have to be, even if he’s not sure what that somewhere is. “I was just really tired. I don’t feel so bad now. I won’t do it again.”

The leather creaks as Foggy leans back against the couch. His voice sounds odd. Tired? Sad? “You’ve promised that before buddy.”

He has. He thinks carefully, plucking at the hoodie Steve brought him. It smells like Foggy. “I signed a contract to life?”

“That’s good.” Wet in Foggy’s voice. Upset. “That’s a start.”

“My protective factors are you.” Hesitantly, Matt reaches out. Finds Foggy’s hand. “The others. My Dad. He wouldn’t like it if I gave up. And Steve says everyone would be sad.”

Foggy’s fingers shake under his own. “Protective factors?”

“Reasons why he doesn’t want to kill himself,” Nat says softly. “Things for him to think about when he gets suicidal thoughts.”

The satchel is down by the coffee table. Leaning over Lucky’s snoring, he grabs the bag and pulls it onto the couch. There’s his quick plastic sheet for when he’s feeling bad. It has his safety plan on it. Settling down next to Foggy’s warmth, he shows it to him. “We made it simpler. It’s hard to tell people when I’m feeling bad. So instead I just need to tell Jarvis. I can use a code word because it’s hard to talk about emotional things. I say or type ‘safety plan’ and he finds someone to help who isn’t busy.”

Foggy’s hand twitches. Deep breath that’s full of emotion. “That’s why you didn’t wake me up, isn’t it?”

He winces. He’s supposed to wake up Foggy when he feels like hurting himself. “The emotions get big in my head really fast. Then when they’re big, there’s not much room to think of anything else. Fiona says that’s why I forget things and can’t think clearly. Sam’s helping me.”

“Sam helps him practice what he should do when he starts getting overwhelmed,” Nat translates. “And it’s helping at least some of the time. He’s remembering to stop and use his breathing exercises. He distracts himself by focusing on the dinosaurs or his stim toys. He still has trouble noticing and reacting to the emotions that lead up to his episodes, but he is making progress.”

Placing the satchel in front of him, Matt leans close into Foggy’s side. “Fiona and me talked about things that are working. Therapy with Fiona helps me feel more in control. Sand-tray helps me figure out what I’m worrying about, because I don’t always know. We talk about the bad things that happened, and that makes them feel less scary. We talk about good things, and that helps me remember not everything is bad. We set goals, and Steve or Bruce helps with my schedule. That makes things less chaotic. Nat helps with cognitive distortions, and that helps me spot them before they wind me up. All the talk about emotions and trauma helps me understand it more. Claire says I’m not allowed to exercise except for some very gentle yoga. So Fiona and me think I need to try to do more gentle things that make the tension go away. Like ice, and ripping newspaper, and maybe massages.”

“We’re figuring out medications as well.” Warmth of Nat leaning past Matt toward Foggy. Fabric moving as she squeezes his arm. “Matt doesn’t think this was caused by the Zoloft increase two weeks ago, but dose increases can cause suicidal thoughts. It’s usually a temporary side affect. They considered switching to another antidepressant, but he wants to stick to Zoloft for now. It’s unlikely the Seroquel caused this since he’s only taken it a few nights, but we’re stopping it for a week to see what happens.”

Which is disappointing. The Seroquel is supposed to help his anxiety and make him sleep better. He’d only started on a small dose, but so far he’s had less nightmares on it, and he hadn’t had a single night terror or gone sleep walking once. No change in his anxiety levels, but it usually takes at least a couple of weeks to feel its true effect. “And I’m looking forward to Steve’s birthday. And I’m looking forward to gaining enough weight to spar with Nat again. Things were bad, but everything’s going to be alright now Foggy. I promise.”


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoiler trigger warnings for this chapter

“This is one of your signs,” Foggy says on Friday as he stiffly sits down on the floor by Matt’s desk. “Nat and Steve say when you hide behind something solid, it usually means you’re trying to distance yourself from people. Nat thinks you use it to punish yourself when you think you’ve done something wrong.”

The wooden walls of the desk are too tight around him. Sounds echo back too close. If someone were to trap in under here, there would be few ways to escape. He wraps his arms around his legs. Lucky barges his way past the chair barrier he’d put in the way. The dog’s foul breath fills up the small space.

The sad note hasn’t left Foggy’s voice since Matt ran into the wall, but now it’s stronger. Something resigned sounding too? “Come on buddy. Talk to me. Or talk to Lucky if that’ll help.”

“Foggy.” Everything was shaky, but OK again. Now everything is terrible. The back of his eyes sting. His throat is almost too tight for words. “I’m r-really really bad.”

Wet in Foggy’s words too, like whatever Matt has is catching. “Buddy. You’re going to break my heart if you keep talking like that. Come out here so I can hug you, OK?”

His limbs shake as he crawls out from under the desk.

Strain in Foggy’s breathing as his arms wrap around him. Pull him into a sitting position. Surround him with warmth and Foggy’s heartbeat. “What happened Matty? You were doing good today, except for…” Heavy sound of Foggy swallowing. “Hey, bud, you know I’m not angry with you, right?”

Matt nods against Foggy’s shoulder.

“Then what is this?” Foggy’s hands rub circles in his back. Soothing.

“I wanted to help.” Clutching Foggy’s suit jacket with one hand, he gestures the other up at his desk. To the laptop he’d been using to listen to Foggy’s notes on the case he’s working on.

“And that’s great.” Foggy squeezes him tighter. The deep pressure is almost as good as before Wright hurt Foggy. “I am one hundred percent down for you helping me. The sooner we get this case done, the sooner Mrs Richards goes back to her family. I’d say something about money too, but I’m on a fixed paycheck no matter how many cases I take on, so that doesn’t really work.”

Lucky licks his fingers. Huffing, Matt reaches out to pat the dog’s head. Foggy clearly doesn’t understand how terrible this is. “I tried listening to the notes. Some of the words make sense, but they don’t stay in my head long enough for the sentences to make sense. And they’re just - they don’t make sense. It all falls out of my head, and I don’t understand.”

Silence in which Foggy’s hand continues its soothing circles. “That’s fine. You have issues with concentration sometimes. That’s totally normal, right Jarvis?”

“Lack of concentration is a frequent complaint among those with PTSD,” the voice from the ceiling says. “As are memory problems, and difficulty retaining information. PTSD is linked with several changes in brain structure and function, including the amygdala, hippocampus, and prefrontal cortex. Being unable to concentrate or comprehend complex information is typical for many people with PTSD.”

He has been having a lot of problems understanding things, but… “I did consultant work before.”

“Those weren’t full cases bud. They were just questions on parts of case law I know your geeky little heart loves. And you’ve kind of changed since then. I don’t think you remembered as much as you do now. I don’t think you really processed what happened. And some days, they’re going to be worse than others. I think this is a bad day.”

It’s not right. The feelings wind up too tight inside him. His hands want to hit, so he flaps the hand he was stroking Lucky with, knocking it lightly against his knee. “But I want to do the notes. I have to. Steve’s birthday is soon.”

“You’re not making much sense today.” Giving him a final squeeze, Foggy pulls away, resting his hands on Matt’s arms. “Take a deep breath and try again. The satchel’s under your desk if you need it.”

Words aren’t working right today. They keep getting tangled. “Bucky said it’s a good idea. And Steve wants it. And maybe if I can read notes I can do work. Because I don’t have enough.”

Foggy’s hands rub up and down his arms. “We’re getting somewhere. What don’t you have enough of?”

He stops flapping with a quick snap of fingers against each other. Reaches into his hoodie pocket where he keeps the tangle and the marble maze. It’s good to twist the fuzzy tangle between his fingers. “Money.”

“Money.” A long pause in which Foggy’s hands stop moving. “Oh. I get it. You want to buy something for Steve’s birthday?”

The soft felt that covers the tangle is patchy in places. Worn through to smooth plastic where he’s fiddled so much. It’s still soothing to stroke the softness that’s left. Twist the plastic joints around around around. “I can’t make this one. Heard him say he wants it.”

“Crap, and your accounts must be drained dry by now.” Foggy’s hands move again, rubbing his upper arms. “Sorry buddy, I didn’t think. That’s fine. Tell me what you want and I’ll buy it. Or I can transfer some money over. Stark pays his lawyers well, and we’re still getting free food and board, so it’s not like I can’t afford it. Heck, the only big outgoings we have are the rent on our old office. I know everyone in Hell’s Kitchen keeps pushing money at us to cover that, but it doesn’t seem right taking it now Stark seems set on keeping us, and actually having a job and everything.”

The words make his thoughts freeze. Foggy always seemed so sure Tony would keep them here. Was there a time when he wasn’t sure? His stomach churns to think about Foggy worrying during those first few weeks. Mentally he shakes his head, trying to remember what they’re talking about. “It’s not from me if I don’t buy it.”

Foggy snorts. “That’s a little dumb buddy. What about when you were a kid, and your dad gave you money to buy something for a friend? Those gifts were still from you. It’s like that.”

He twists the tangle around his fingers. Too tight. “Didn’t have any friends.”

Strange skip in Foggy’s heart. “Your dad’s friends then.”

Matt shrugs. “He didn’t have friends either.” Not the ones that stuck around long enough to give presents to.

“I can try digging up some consultant work you might like,” Foggy says with more wet in his voice than before. “Fiona says you should try doing things you enjoy. So if you can find your inner law nerd, that’s cool beans. But Steve’s birthday is only in three days, and your brain isn’t firing on all cylinders right now. I don’t want this to be something that sends you over the edge.”

Foggy’s got a point. He hasn’t read much braille by hand since the night it happened, but sometimes when he does the letters refuse to become words under his fingers. He drifts more and gets distracted. Audio is easier, but he still loses sections of text, especially when he’s listening to one of the older books. His shoulders slump. It would be too much pressure after the last few days.

Foggy snaps his fingers, making him flinch. “I’ve got it. We’re looking at this from the wrong angle. You’ve already got a job.”

Matt blinks. He has to help make breakfast every morning, and he needs to feed Lucky and Tuna, but those aren’t real jobs. “I don’t?”

“Sure you do.” Foggy shakes Matt back and forth a little, but there’s a grin in his voice. “One of the hardest jobs there is. Think about it. If we weren’t here with Stark, we’d already have applied for disability benefit. Not like we’d have much of a choice, and you do qualify. Now, I’m not saying we do that. What I’m saying is you’re disabled enough that you can’t work right now. Getting better is a job, and if you were any other person you’d be getting paid to do that. So it’s only fair that you get paid too.”

“But…” Matt frowns. “Where would the money come from?”

“Me or Stark.” Foggy sighs. “Come on bud, don’t look at me like that. I know you don’t like accepting money. I’ll help you fill out the forms if you want to apply for disability benefit officially. I just thought this might be easier.”

Murdock's are proud. They don’t take handouts. He remembers the times his Dad didn’t have a job. Or worse, the times the cupboards were bare of food. The game they’d play pretending neither of them were hungry, because while the pain in his stomach was bad, seeing his tall strong Dad _shrink_ when handing over food stamps was worse. He doesn’t remember many images from before he lost his eyesight, but seeing the proud line of his Dad’s shoulders fall under accusing eyes is something he won’t forget easily. But this is different, isn’t it? “It’s not bad to accept help.”

Flutter of hesitation in Foggy’s heart. “Right buddy. It’s a-OK to accept help.”

“OK, but I don’t think I want to know where it comes from.” Even if they can afford it, he still feels guilty accepting money from both Foggy and Tony. Making the money faceless might help. “And not too much. I only need it sometimes for presents. And it should be linked to therapy. So if I do really bad, then I shouldn’t get any.”

Foggy’s thumbs rub circles into his arms. “As long as you try, then you’re doing a great job. I know I don’t always appreciate how difficult this is for you. Heck, all of the worst things that have happened to me were you getting hurt. So I can’t imagine how you felt, being the one to go through those things. Even when I got my gnarly new scar, all I could think about was you.”

Foggy’s the best friend in the world. “It’s still bad for you. All of this. You get sad.” Like how there’s wet in Foggy’s voice today. Or how he left, even though he did come back.

Another one of those pauses. Like Foggy’s considering him. People have been doing that a lot today. “Yeah, but you’re worth it, remember? Now let’s do some shopping. I want to see what we’re getting Steve.”

***

Father Lantom likes the dinosaurs. “Some of the nuns subscribe to the New Earth theory, so don’t tell them, but I was fond of dinosaurs as a child. Of all creatures really. Elegant in their design. Each one following their nature.”

Matt sits in his corner of the couch, a pile of shredded newspaper in front of him, and Tuna held on his lap. The kitten keeps trying to inch toward the dinosaurs. “Do you think humans are the same? Following their nature?”

Movement and plastic against wood as Father Lantom places the dinosaurs back in the middle drawer of the coffee table. He’s probably not putting them back in the right order. “I think humans are unique. They can choose their own paths.”

Matt wriggles his toes for lack of hands to stim with. Strokes the grumbling cat. “Do you think I’m making the right choice? Staying here? Not dying?”

No sound as Father Lantom stills. Then wood against wood as he closes the drawer. The couch dips as he sits back on it. “I think the world would lose a very important soul if you were to leave it.”

“If I die, then I go to hell.” That’s what Grandma said would happen. It seems likely. “But if I stay here, sometimes it feels like I’m already there.”

“Every one of us will die some day,” Father Lantom says solemnly. “And none of us truly know where we will end up. Every move I’ve witnessed you make has been about helping people. I don’t think you’ll go to hell, but I can’t say for certain what will happen to any of us after death. What I can say with absolute certainty, is you are living life right now, and there are people around you who care. You still have a path to choose. It may not be the one you wished for, but it is there. And Matthew, it could be there for years to come. Decades filled with some sad moments, but happy ones too. Uncertain death will come. Isn’t it better to see what certain life has to offer instead of leaping straight to it?”

***

‘My head hurts,’ he texts Jarvis while he’s lying down for his zillionth nap (he’s always so tired now) and suddenly everyone is in the room.

Bruce crouches warm in front of the couch. “How bad is the pain on a scale of one to ten?”

Karen’s heart flutters with nerves. She and Clint smell like sweat. Tony and Bucky smell like hot metal, like they were making something. Sam smells like the flour they were using to make fresh bread. Foggy limps in from the elevator, using his cane like he usually does nearer the end of the day. Thor’s footsteps follow, sounding hesitant. Only Nat isn’t here.

“Do I need to call anyone?” Pepper asks at the same time Steve says “He might underestimate.”

“I’ll get the migraine pills,” Tony shouts.

“We don’t need them until it gets bad,” Foggy says. “Aspirin can stop it progressing into a migraine if he takes them soon enough. Good luck with that.”

“I’ll get the aspirin,” Karen shouts.

“Aw man.” Clint scuffs a foot. “I wanted to see him on the loopy pills.”

Thump. Bucky hits Clint. “Don’t wish pain on people dumbass.”

Some kind of gesture from Tony. “Yeah birdbrain. One more squawk out of you and it’s ten minutes on the time out chair.”

Steve sighs. “For the last time Tony, you can’t send people to the time out chair.”

“And this is why terminator goes around hitting people. Lack of consistent parenting.”

“Everyone be quiet, or you’ll all go in time out.” The room falls silent. Wow. How does Pepper manage to sound so scary without shouting? A sound like Tony’s about to talk. “You too Tony. Don’t forget I know where you keep the cone of shame you use on the bots.” Her voice softens. “Now Matt, how bad is the pain on a scale of one to ten?”

***

“He had a bad night,” Steve says to Foggy in the doorway of Steve’s bedroom. “A lot of wandering while acting agitated. He was definitely asleep for some of it, but I don’t know how much. Some screaming ones too.”

“C’mon pal.” Bucky crouches close, stroking his hair. “Time to get up sleepy bones.”

Matt stays limp on the silk sheets. The world is too heavy today. He wants to go back to sleep.

Flesh against flesh as Foggy drags a hand down his face. “Is this a Dennis Short morning?”

“No, he’s not tense enough for that.” Steve keeps his voice hushed, even though he must know Matt can hear it. “And he’s had the usual mix of nightmares as far as I can tell. Worrying about Adam Thomas and Albert Jones being inside the tower. More about Albert Jones than usual. Usually he fixates on Thomas. Some of the nightmare where he thinks he’s trapped somewhere, and while he was pacing he mumbled about people who were going to hurt him. He’s overwhelmed I think.”

“Any acting - um.” Some kind of gesture. Foggy lowering a hand? “You know.”

“Maybe. Like Fiona said, most people act young when they wake from a nightmare. I don’t think we’re going to be able to tell when he’s emotional. And I think Fiona’s right that it’s not useful to keep watching for it to happen.”

“Right.” Foggy sighs. It sounds tired. “Adapt to how he’s acting. Prompt coping methods. Offer some if he’s having difficulty. Try not to be patronising. Try not to judge.”

“I talked with Sam about it. He had some good insights. He pointed out that we made Matt give up all his old destructive coping mechanisms, and replaced them with tactics he has very little experience using. That, along with his problems with concentration and language, it’s no wonder he acts unpractised sometimes.” Footsteps and shuffling of - something? Steve pulling a shoe on? “Really, we have no idea when he’s regressing and when he’s not. I doubt even Nat will be right all the time. And if we make him feel self conscious when all he’s trying to do is communicate his emotions or be honest with us-”

“Then we’ll lose the ground we’ve covered,” Foggy says. “I get it. He’s learning new tactics, and he’s a bit of an awkward baby duckling at them right now. But if we make him feel bad about being awkward, he might fly back to self harm and bottling things up. Wow, you’ve really put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”

“Battle plans are my job.” Rough scrape sound of Steve doing up laces. “For now we need to focus on emotional regulation. Help him get a handle on his emotions better. Find a medication combination so he gets more sleep. Help him feel safe. Nat made a good call focusing on stories and finding the book his dad used to read him. We’ll need to remember that comforts he had as a child help soothe and engage him, but for now just treat any possible regression as we’ve already been doing. We’ll review the behaviour in a month to see if we need to do anything about it then.”

Fabric against plaster. Foggy leaning against a wall? “He used to throw up after exams. That’s when I knew for sure something was different about him.”

Lack of noise from Steve. Not moving? “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, there were signs before. Millions of signs when I stopped to think about it. He didn’t go to parties. He’d sit in silence for hours, studying. I wouldn’t see him eat or sleep. He’d be so charming and polite, then I’d say something unexpected. Sometimes he’d recover, and sometimes he’d stutter out some non answer. I think I annoyed him by doing that during that first year. I could be a little off beat I guess? I took joy in dancing away from the script that is life. One time, I kid you not, he hid under his duvet in the middle of the day, coat and shoes on to avoid answering some screwy question my teenage brain came up with. Said he needed a nap. This from the guy who barely slept.” Foggy chuckles. “I just figured he was an awkward nerd. Then there were the nightmares. At least a few a week. Not as loud as they are now, but still scary. The first time I hugged him after one of them - champion hugger by the way - he went stiff and asked what I was doing. Not accusing, just completely lost as if he really had no idea what I was doing. I hugged him the next time he had a nightmare. Like I said, champion hugger here. And every time he just sat there. Not resisting, but not hugging back. So I figured, awkward nerd who’s not used to physical affection. I was so stupid.”

“Labelling,” Steve says mildly.

“I’ll put a dollar in the cognitive bias jar. Anyway, our first big exam came up. Matt stopped eating, and I figured he was eating at the library. He stopped sleeping, and I’ve no idea what excuse I made up for that. What I did notice is he’d clutch his stomach like it hurt. And he’d stop sometimes. Just stop with his finger on the page he was reading, and not move for a long time. I asked, and he said he was fine. We sat the exam, and I thought ‘thank god that’s over.’ Then he started throwing up. I asked, and he said he was fine. A stomach bug. He said he got them sometimes. I suggested it could be stress, and he looked so confused and said he doesn’t get stressed. So in my infinite teenage wisdom I decided to drag him to a party to distract him. For the first time he actually agreed. And then he had a panic attack. Only, wait, not a panic attack. He said he didn’t have those. It’s an old rib injury. It happens sometimes. It’s like he didn’t join it all together in his head. And I tried to spot the parts of his head that were hurting him. I won his trust enough for him to let me teach him these things he probably should’ve learnt as a toddler. But now, when I hear him talk like that, all I can think is I missed some big fucking pieces.”

“Like you said, you were a teenager. You didn’t have the training. You didn’t have the support network. And from the sounds of things, between coping mechanisms and repression, the issues wouldn’t have been obvious until he underwent something traumatic enough to bring it all up.” Fabric moving as Steve stands up. Light sound of him placing a hand on Foggy’s shoulder. “Imagine building something on an unstable foundation. Depending on how much damage there is, an expert could tell that the building is unstable. Anyone else might see signs that the building is different from others they’ve seen, but not know what that means, or how to fix it. It’s only when the building undergoes trauma, either through a sudden blow or long period of stress, that the whole thing falls down. Then you realise it wasn’t as stable as it seemed.”

“Matt’s right,” Foggy says. “You’re good at explaining things.”

“That was Sam’s metaphor, so praise belongs to him.” Very small smile in Steve’s voice. “Foggy, I know what’s it’s like to wish you’d done something different. Bucky was by my side for a long time after being tortured when he was a prisoner of war. I don’t think we talked about it once. When I got him back again I was just as hopeless. But I didn’t know any better. And once I pulled my head out of my ass and started accepting help, we both started doing better. It took a long time to forgive myself for how I acted back then. But holding onto guilt like that isn’t going to help Bucky, and it’s not going to help Matt. I know how difficult it is, but you need to try to forgive yourself. We can’t change the past.”

“Right.” Deep sigh from Foggy. “We just need to focus on today. Which is going to suck.”

“I read him the social story again, so he knows what’s going to happen, but I’m not sure how much it will help. I think he knew he might react badly. He said we shouldn’t cancel it, even if he felt ‘sad.’ He wants it over with.”

“Don’t we all.” Loud breath, like Foggy’s steadying himself. “OK. You go for your super jog. I’ll start his morning routine.If he wants to be ready for the op, it looks like I’ll need to take over the steering wheel for a while.”

“We’ll help when we get back,” Steve says. “If you want to talk some more, my therapy should finish by the time he goes up to the med floor.”

***

Foggy’s nails are coated with something smooth.

It smells chemically, which isn’t nice, but the smooth is nice. It’s good to scrunch himself tiny against Foggy’s chest. To play with the hands that are so much softer than his own. To move his fingertips back and forth over each smooth nail in turn. Thumb to pinkie, then back again. His mouth hums, and his body wants to rock.

Mom sits to Foggy’s right on the couch, talking about a friend called Frank. He has a dog and likes flowers. She’s trying to get him to rent a small allotment from someone who comes into the hardware store a lot. And she’s hoping he’ll take up her offer to come along to her co-op baking group. “He’s such a dear, but he needs more hobbies. He needs to talk to people.”

And for some reason Foggy doesn’t seem to like Frank. “Well that jerk can shove his flowers up his keister.”

“Franklin!” Mom shouts at the same time at the same time Matt abandons Foggy’s hand to cover his ears.

Foggy’s hand soothes up and down Matt’s side. “Sorry bud. Today can be a no shouting, no arguing day.”

That’s better. Today all his nerves are screaming. If someone makes him move he might cry.

Lucky snuffles, curious. Keeping his head wedged under Foggy’s chin, he reaches a hand to pat the dog on the head.

“Oh.” The couch moves as Anna stands up. “I think it’s time for the xanax sweetheart. I’ll be back in a minute.” Sound of her moving to the kitchen area, followed by click of cupboard doors opening and rushing water.

Foggy squeezes him tighter. “You’re OK Matty. I’m not going to let anything bad happen.”

“You said that before,” Matt whispers, pressing closer even though it makes his tooth cry in pain. Foggy’s heart jumps, and that’s all it takes for Matt to feel terrible. “Sorry.”

“No Matt.” Hesitant movement before there’s Foggy’s hand resting on the back of his head. “Bucky explained why that might’ve been a bad idea. The world doesn’t make much sense to you right now. You’re looking for ways to understand it. Like the fact cards. Me making you a promise and it not coming true is going to make you distrust things more. But buddy, this is different than the prison. We couldn’t control things there as well as we can here.”

Bucky and Jarvis talked a lot about all the security measures that are going to stop him being hurt while he’s asleep. But his stomach still writhes and hurts. “And I’m going to wake up here?”

“That’s what the social story Bruce made said, right?”

Matt nods. “I take xanax. Then Bucky and Claire will come. Me, Mom, you, Bucky, Claire, and Lucky will start watching Spirit Stallion of the Cimarron. Claire will give me an injection. I’ll fall asleep, and when I wake up I’ll be back here listening to the movie. My tooth will be fixed, so it might taste bad. Two wisdom tooth will be gone. I’ll have gauze in my mouth until it stops bleeding. Then the rest of the day is only for relaxing. Soft foods, no straws, no hot drinks. My mouth will be numb. I need to take painkillers. My emotions might be weird from the drugs, but that’s OK because it’s therapy day. Lots of people’s emotions are weird on therapy day.”

Mom’s footsteps stop, and her breathing turns wet for some reason.

Foggy just hugs him tighter. “Full marks buddy.”

***

A voice jerks him awake.

Only, not awake, because it doesn’t feel like he’s been asleep. It feels like someone’s found the memories of him lying in bed and not wanting to move, sitting in the bath and crying because Foggy wants him to wash his hair and it’s too much, hiding against Foggy and telling Claire about the horse in the movie who always gets back up. Then they’ve reached back and snatched him from those moments into this one, leaving his head reeling.

The voice speaks again from in front of him. Female. Lilting up at the end. A question.

His mouth wants to answer, but his brain can’t work out what the question is.

“…Out of it…” No question this time. Is he still supposed to answer?

His tongue is heavy, and the rest of his body feels strange, like it might not be attached to him. His fingers twitch without him telling them to. Soft under them. Nasty rough in his mouth. Ugh. Cold cushion under his legs. Couch? Heartbeat and warm against the side of his head.

Heartbeat! He tries to make his arm move, but it flails about and gets lost instead. “F’gy.”

“Hey buddy.” Foggy’s arms are around him, keeping him slumped but upright. “How are you feeling?”

Like the world is strange. All buzzing around him. Tight around his head. Headphones? His body doesn’t want to move. It twitches, sluggish. It definitely feels like couch beneath his legs.

“Matt?” Asks the disconnected female voice in front of him. “Focus on me. Tell us how you’re feeling.”

Like tripping off a bad fair ride.Waiting for the world to make sense. “E’vry ing’pinning.” Which isn’t quite right, but almost.

“That’s OK,” the voice says. “Just relax against Foggy for a bit. Tell us if you think you might throw up.”

Throwing up is gross. He doesn’t want to do that. It’s way better to lean against Foggy’s heartbeat, fingers trying to remember how to grip the soft blanket. Time passes. Talking. Lots of voices.

His mouth feels strange. Kind of cold and hard like it’s replaced with stone. That sounds _terrible._ He doesn’t want a stone mouth. It can’t be any good for eating chocolate.

Foggy’s hand wraps around his own, pulling it. “Fingers out of your mouth buddy. I don’t want you messing with it.”

But it feels weird. It tastes weird. There’s something in his mouth. It tastes awful. He tries to swallow and there’s sharp tang of blood on his tongue. Unease squirms in his stomach. Not right. Unsafe. “Don’t wan it.”

Foggy’s hand lets go of his own. “What don’t you want Matt?”

Something in his mouth scrapes against his tongue. It’s wedged between his teeth so he can’t fully close them. Things are too heavy for panic. Instead the world oozes with the sense that something is deeply wrong. Pushing himself out of his slumped position, he fumbles for a place that’s safe, before moving closer into Foggy. Foggy is always the safest place. “Don’t wan it. Don’t want it. _Don’t want_.”

“Matt.” Firm voice. Claire? “Breathe. You need to keep biting down on the gauze until your gums stop bleeding. Do you understand?”

His mouth tastes of blood. The parts of his jaw he can feel ache, like someone’s pried his jaw open too wide for too long. The rough shouldn’t be in his mouth.

Foggy grabs his hand. “Matt. No.”

Wet drips down his cheeks. Suddenly it’s hard to breathe. Why is this happening? Why is Foggy mad?

Hands on his shoulders. Claire’s voice. Claire’s heartbeat. “Matt, I need you to breathe with me, OK? Deep breath in.”

Why is the world warped and strange? Why are Foggy and Claire here?

“Shh.” Foggy rubbing his back. Heartbeat and scent wrapping tight around Matt. “I’ve got you Matt. You’re fine. Just breathe.”

Matt sucks in a breath. It tastes terrible. Tang of blood. Scratch of gauze. Chemicals and rubber gloves. “F’gy. ‘Ink I bit his ‘umb ‘ff.”

“His thumb,” says a third voice. Rough, smooth. “It’s a flashback Foggy. Remind him where he is.”

Foggy’s heart speeds up. “You’re in the tower Matt. In the communal lounge. It’s 12 pm on Saturday the 2nd of July. You had an operation to take out two wisdom teeth and fix a cracked tooth. That’s why you taste blood. It’s from some cuts in your mouth. You’re safe. Everyone is safe.”

Frowning, Matt grips the soft blanket. Listens to Foggy’s too fast heartbeat. The world is strange. Jarring, twisting, odd. He can’t close his mouth. That’s not right. Something inside it. Not supposed to be there.

Sigh as Foggy grabs his hand again. “Not yet buddy. Keep the gauze there.”

Shifting irritably, Matt whines, putting all his displeasure into the noise. Shakes his head against Foggy’s chest.

“Usually my patients are a lot more cooperative when they’re this wasted,” coffee latex Claire says. “OK Murdock, let’s try it. Take the gauze out and give it to me. Carefully. You’ve got stitches in your mouth and you’re not going to tear them. Got it?”

***

“How was therapy?” Paper, blueberries, (Pepper?) asks when coffee, dog, (Clint?) makes the couch go thump.

Dog? Coffee? Clint? Groans and makes lots of movement the other side of humming? Engine grease? Blueberries? (Tony?). The couch bounces. Neat. “Why isn’t there a magic switch to make fucked up things go away?”

“First of all, it would be science, not magic.” Tapping sound from blueberries? Tony? “Second, I’m looking into it. Based on the current research into that area, check back in a few decades. Then, probably not, but maybe.”

Another even louder groan.

Matt hums, playing with Lucky’s fur. The world is a little prickly right now. Lots of sounds and smells that clash into each other so it’s hard to piece them apart. For some reason it’s easy to distract himself from the discomfort. The dog’s fur is soft and warm.

“I think I know something that might cheer you up,” Pepper? Says. “Matt, did you want to see Tony’s face again?”

Yes. Definitely. Did he do that before? He holds out his hands before realising he’s not sure where Tony is.

Hands with Pepper’s heartbeat take his own. Guide him to skin with Tony’s heartbeat.

“Careful this time pup,” Tony says gruffly. The skin moves under his hands. “I know I’m handsome, but don’t poke my eyes out in your enthusiasm.”

Shuffling closer, Matt moves his hands upwards, finding hair. It’s stiff with product. Kind of gross. His fingers waver over forehead, before searching to find ears. His body isn’t listening very well so his arms quiver. It’s hard to pick up as much information as he thinks he would normally. His fingers skate down to get an idea of the shape of Tony’s face. Stop as they find something unexpected.

Blinking, he tries to map out the shape of the short hair. A pattern of short hair and skin. Giggles make his whole body shake. Goatees are hilarious.

“Everyone’s a critic.” Tony pushes him lightly away. “How’d we get stuck babysitting this clown again?”

“Anna, Steve, and Bucky will be back in a minute,” Movement as Pepper hands him soft blanket. It keeps falling down. “They’re regrouping, and I’m sure Foggy and Natasha will be back from their therapy soon. Besides, you’re enjoying yourself. You two haven’t spent much time together recently.”

Matt grins. Tony enjoys being with Matt! That’s good. Tony’s neat, even though his taste in cologne is terrible.

Tony snorts. “Like you have better taste. Your idea of a great scent is stealing your friend’s stinky clothes.”

Matt straightens up to a sitting position, even though it makes him sway. His words slur, but at least they aren’t muffled like he vaguely remembers happening before. “They’re not stinky. They have just the right amount of stink.”

“Sure they do puppy.” Movement as Tony stands up. “Stay still and keep your fingers out of your mouth. I’m going to get you a smoothie. Nannybot will go into full mother bear mode if I don’t at least try to get some food down you.”

***

“Ugh,” Matt says as the second cup of smoothie spills down his chin.

Nasty scrubbing as someone attacks his face. “This is misrepresentation pup. Here I thought you were a spaniel, not a drooly Saint Bernard..”

Making a face, Matt flinches away from the rough cloth. The front of his hoodie is soaked through. Figuring out how to get his shaky hand to his numb mouth is hard enough, but once the liquid is there, most of it seems to fall out again anyway. Slosh of liquid. A little left in the plastic cup. Steeling himself he raises the plastic to where he thinks his mouth must be. Rap of plastic against cloth then leather as it slips out of his fingers.

“That’s it,” the blueberry Tony voice says as a female laughs. “You’re getting a bib. And keep those fingers away from your mouth.”

But it feels weird. His hands move to pluck the wet cloth away from his chest instead. Ugh. It’s all cold and sticky. He whimpers.

“You do know I’m a self absorbed only child, right?” blueberry Tony voice says. “As in no maternal bone in my body. So you can stop trying to pull my heartstrings. They aren’t there.”

He really doesn’t like the feeling of wet sticky sweetness on his skin. Fumbling, he tries to pull the hoodie off.

“It’s like a cat stuck in a jumper.” blueberry Tony sighs. “OK puppy, arms up.”

***

Clint knows about trapped, so Matt tries to explain it to him. Only he’s not sure he’s using the right words. Then he talks about closet, which leads him to monsters. Monsters is a big topic. He’s not sure any of those words come out right.

Clint’s hands rub up and down Matt’s arms. Matt’s hands twisted in the man’s worn t-shirt. “I swear he was funnier before. I have it on camera.”

“People,” Matt hiccups between sobs, because he remembers that too. People and cameras are never good. And there was the first picture day in high school and his hair was messed up, and no one told him until afterwards. He wanted to be friends with this girl because he went around her house once in middle school for a school project, and her parents were so nice. Her dad actually shook his hand and said hello. She saw the picture and said he looked stupid. Fresh tears trail down his face because that’s suddenly the worst thing that’s ever happened.

“We’re updating our agreement Capsicle,” blueberry Tony says. “I’m not babysitting your kid unless he’s sober and not leaking from anywhere.”

“We had an agreement?” Sharp soap (Steve?) asks, confused.

“First he tries to feed his smoothie to the dog,” blueberry Tony grumbles. “Then he spills two cups down himself. I change his clothes and kit him out in waterproofs, and he spills the next cup down me instead. I’m a genius enough to know that this level of parenting is beyond my skill set. I took one parenting class at beginners level, and I was thrown out.”

“It’s not parenting Tony,” ink, paper, hot plastic Pepper says calmly. “And you did fine.”

“Wait.” Sounds like Foggy? “Hold up. Why did you take a parenting class?”

“Tony had some unusual ideas about running the tower when we all first moved in,” sharp soap Steve says uncomfortably. “It’s best not to talk about it.”

“Well someone had to do something.” blueberry Tony huffs. “You all moved into my tower then simultaneously had mental breakdowns. Granted the first few experiments failed, but at least the team talks to each other now. I hear that’s important.”

“It’s very important Tony,” sharp soap Steve says. “I’m grateful you persuaded us to start therapy. It helped.”

“Least I get some recognition around here. Without me fixing your problems none of us would know about terminator. Heck, we’d probably all be on opposite sides of some war right now.”

“You’re exaggerating. It couldn’t get that bad.”

One time in college he stayed late at the library. It was icy, and sometimes he falls, so Foggy came to check on him. And Foggy fell. That was the worst thing ever. “He smelled like blood, and he ripped his trousers. It was really sad.” A pause. Is that the right emotion? “Or scary.”

“Totally bro. Sounds terrifying. I’m scared just listening to it.” Clint’s hands keep rubbing his arms, too fast to be calming. His voice drops to a stage whisper. “I have no idea what he’s talking about. Help.”

“Sharp soap.” Matt shivers. Steve was really hurt once. “I didn’t like the rocks. The voice and camera. They made it fall down. Crunch then wet sound. Really bad.” It’s the worst thing that’s happened ever.

“Sharp soap is me, right?” Warmth crouches close. Then heavy hand with familiar heartbeat on his shoulder. “It’s OK Matt. It’s over.”

“Sharp-” no wait. There’s a name. “Steve!” He throws himself at the warmth, wanting to feel more of that heartbeat. This is the best thing ever.

“Careful.” Arms pull him back onto the couch. The cushion jumps as Steve sits near him. “You’re uncoordinated right now, and I don’t think you’re very aware of your surroundings.”

Matt clambers as close as he can. The giant t-shirt that smells like Thor catches under his knees, making the movement difficult. It keeps falling off at least one of his shoulders. Excitement sparks bright in his stomach. “Hi Steve.”

Laughter in Steve’s voice. “Hi Matt.”

“This isn’t fair,” coffee, dog Clint’s voice speaks somewhere behind Steve. “How come you get loopy Matt and I get incoherent breakdown?”

“You know his head’s a mess,” Foggy says from somewhere. “Did you really expect high Matt to be any different?”

“Yes,” dog Clint says firmly. “Youtube promised me hilarious moments.”

Matt hums happily. Steve is here. This is great. “Hi Steve. You smell like apples.”

“I had a snack,” Steve’s voice rumbles through him. “How are you feeling?”

Feelings is always a difficult question. “The world’s vibrating. Is there a emotion for that? It’s not on my cards.”

“How long is he going to stay like this?” ink Pepper voice says from somewhere behind Steve’s warmth.

“With Matt it’s hard to say.” Another voice. Cinnamon? (Sam?) “His doctors think he’s more sensitive to medications than most people. He’ll be a little affected all day, but hopefully the worst should wear off soon. Luckily his sensory issues don’t seem to be too badly affected this time around.”

“I tried putting the sensors back on him.” blueberry Tony sounds disgruntled. “He kept taking them off and hiding them in the couch cushions.”

“Claire didn’t seem worried before she left,” fireplace, Christmas, mints, wood, safe (Mom?) says. “She said to keep him on liquids and soft foods for the rest of the day. I took notes on things to keep an eye on, but she was happy enough that he stopped bleeding and his vitals were good.”

Matt rests his head on Steve’s shoulder. Today is a lot of noise. He’s really tired. “Is Bucky OK?”

“Pal.” Gentle hand on his arm with Bucky’s heartbeat. “I’m right here. I’m fine.”

Bucky is here and that’s amazing. The best thing ever. He throws his arms around Bucky’s warmth. “Bucky! Hi.”

Bucky’s hand moves to rest on his head. Heavy swallowing sound and wet in his voice. “Hi brat. Move over so I can sit down, OK?”

Matt blinks, confused, until arm with Steve’s heartbeat loops around his chest and pulls him back across leather. That bright feeling climbs to his chest, making him want to bounce. “Hi Steve. You smell like apples.”

Warmth of Bucky sits close. Amazing. Best thing ever.

He shuffles closer. Hands with Steve and Bucky’s heartbeats stop him falling over. His hands flap with excitement before finding Bucky’s face. Long hair. It touches shoulders that are broader than Matt’s. It’s soft. Smells fresh, like crisp breeze without city scents attached.

It’s hard to get a picture by face touching. His mind doesn’t work like that. But the things he learns are interesting. Like the hair in the front of Bucky’s face is shorter, past the man’s eyes. His features feel symmetrical. Nothing seems vastly out of proportion. The skin is smooth until his fingers reach his cheeks. A lot of spiky hairs covering the bottom half of the man’s face. Not long enough for a beard. Stubble. It feels like sandpaper against his palms. As hard and unpleasant as Matt’s own gets when he’s too tired to shave. “Are you OK now?”

“Sure pal.” Still that wet in Bucky’s voice. “You OK? You were crying earlier.”

He was doing what?

“Buck?” sharp soap Steve? Says from somewhere close. “I can distract him if this is too much.”

“No.” Slight choke sound in Bucky’s voice. Matt places a hand over Bucky’s mouth to feel it. “This is fine. This is good.”

“You weren’t OK before,” Matt presses.

“That was a while ago pal.” Bucky’s voice comes out muffled. Matt removes his hand, although it’s fascinating to feel Bucky’s lips shape the words. “Life happens. People have bad days. We stick together, we’ll get through it.”

A lot of words to puzzle his way through. Instead he leans back against Bucky’s heartbeat and pulls the man’s metal hand close to fiddle with.

***

Carefully, Matt places the elastic strappy thing on the floor beside the couch. Then he scoots back to his corner, tugging the soft and weighted blankets over him to pretend he’s still napping.

“Matt.” Bruce says from the smaller couch. “You know we can see you, right?”

Matt frowns. “You didn’t see me. I was really quiet.”

“I’m sitting next to your feet,” Foggy says. “I definitely saw you.”

“Didn’t.” Matt crosses his arms over his chest. “I didn’t make any noise for you to see.”

“And Murdock’s cognitive functioning is still at sub optimum level.” Crunch of Tony eating something. Near where Bruce’s voice came from? “Most people use eyes to see, not ears.”

Oh. Right. “Too late anyway. It’s gone. Tuna stole it.”

“Nope bud.” Movement from Foggy. Sound of him placing the icepack holders near Matt. “Tuna’s gone wandering. It’s right here.”

Dammit. Why is it that when you don’t want Tuna to take something, she does, and when you want her to, she doesn’t?

Dangerous note in Mom’s voice from where she sits by Foggy. “Care to tell me why you keep removing your ice packs?”

Matt shifts self consciously. “They squished my head.”

“You don’t like the icepack holders?” Foggy asks.

“My brains were going to leak out,” Matt tries to explain. “Then I’d be able to do even less stuff.”

“Solution,” Foggy says. “I put a cushion on my lap. You put your head there, and I’ll hold the ice packs in place. Then we won’t need to tie anything around your head.”

Matt grins. “Foggy, Foggy, you’re a genius.”

“Alright you flatterer. Get over here.”

***

“Do we know why he emptied the toothpaste everywhere?” Mom asks, stirring Matt from his doze.

“He said something about the smell.” Foggy’s hand strokes through his hair. Nice. It’s good to curl up half in Foggy’s lap, scents and noises of everyone around him. “He can get very tactile and curious when he’s relaxed. I think this is just part of that.”

“He’s sweet,” Bruce says from the smaller couch. “He’s clearly high out of his mind, and most of the time he was asking how people were. I lost count of the amount of times he asked if Bucky was OK.”

“Adorableness doesn’t excuse that mess with the toilet paper,” Tony grumbles.

“Tony, you’re the one who keeps calling him a puppy.” Humour in Sam’s voice. “I thought you’d be happy he decided to reenact the andrex puppy commercial.”

“And it wasn’t that hard to clean up,” Steve says. “Except the parts he turned into confetti.”

Foggy’s laughter echoes through the soft cushion and into Matt. “What I don’t understand is how he did it so fast. One minute I’m turning my back to give him some privacy. The next, there’s toilet paper hanging from the ceiling. Then I starting cleaning it up, and he’s picked up the toothpaste someone left on the side of the sink.”

“I’m more concerned about the number of times he put his fingers in his mouth.” Mom places a gentle hand on his head. “Are we sure he’ll stop that once he wakes up?”

“Friend Matthew has a great wish to please those he cares for.” Thor’s hushed voice comes from one of the armchairs. “I am sure he’ll endeavour to follow instruction once he is of more sound mind.”

“He keeps on trying,” Nat says. She sounds different today. More subdued? She did have therapy. Maybe it didn’t go well? Or maybe it went too well? “And he’ll keep on trying, and he’ll keep on trying. He may get things wrong, push himself into things he’s not ready for, or fail, but he’ll keep on trying. Tell him what he should do to recover, and he’ll try. That’s all we can ask of him.”

Silence for a long moment. Foggy’s hand starts stroking through his hair again. A movie playing. The descriptions talk about fish and short term memory problems.

“Oh crap,” Tony says suddenly.

“What Tony?” Steve’s voice.

“The puppy had two wisdom teeth out, right?”

“Yeah.” Foggy’s voice vibrates through him. “He refused to have them taken out when he was younger. And since he needed to go under to get his molar fixed, they decided to take them out as well. One was impacted, and the other could cause a problem in the future. The last two haven’t come in yet. Removing them would be a much more major operation, and they aren’t causing any issues right now, so they decided to leave them there.”

“He only had two wisdom teeth out.” Tony stresses the words. “That means when the others make their appearance we could end up doing this whole thing over again.”

Another pause.

“Oh crap,” half the room says in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings =
> 
> strong emotions, Matt's childhood (poverty, social isolation, etc), discussions of suicide, possible psychological regression, anxiety, Matt's coping methods including dissociation (but no self harm), stories of clueless college Matt (and what can happen when a kid is told to ignore their emotions too long and not taught how to identify and manage them), a dental operation (before and after) and anxiety surrounding it, and high as a kite Matt.
> 
> As always, let me know if you think something should be added to this list.
> 
> Note =
> 
> I've done some research, but I'm not intimately familiar with the disability system in America and New York. I am very familiar with the one in England which is very difficult and long winded to get on. The nature of Matt's condition, and particularly how it can fluctuate would make it hard for him to get disability funded in my country, though it is possible he would after much paperwork and an interrogation from someone unlikely to be qualified in mental health. 
> 
> I'm assuming it would be about as difficult for Matt to get support in New York. Foggy's just using this as an excuse to give him some kind of income, as he realizes it's important for Matt to have money to feel independent. And he's right that getting better is Matt's job at the moment.
> 
> I've finished the first draft! It comes to 76 chapters, but that might change in edits. So no more prompts please. Although I am tempted to write a few chaps from various points before, during, and after this story from other character's povs. We'll see.


	60. Chapter 60

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For possible spoilery trigger warnings go to the end notes.

_It’s strange because he’s playing._

_Soft in his hand that is called Honey one moment, and Toothless the next. Bright colours around him that streak into nonsense. The world is a painting that’s been left out in the rain. Prickling under his feet that tells him grass. Bird song that tells him Central park._

_“Get to work Matty,” his Dad says. “Come on. Show me how well you can read these words.”_

_Matt doesn’t want to work. He wants to run around. To shout, to scream, to play. His Dad never plays with him anymore. He always says he’s too tired, or that Matt needs to work on his words._

_“We all need to do things we don’t want to,” his Dad says wearily whenever Matt protests sitting down and reading. “This is important. You need to learn to be smart. Not like your old man.”_

_There was a movie he watched with Natasha. The thought jarrs him, and for a moment he feels very old and very young at the same time. Then he’s little again, in the bright park. The girl in the movie pretended monsters were dragging her away so her Dad would come and play with her._

_“Help! Dad!” Gripping his t-shirt, he pretends something is dragging him backwards. “Dad! Help! You need to come save me!”_

_His Dad looks at him with a dozen remembered expressions. None of them look like he’s going to help._

_“Dad! The monsters are taking me away!”_

_A smeared corridor stands where the park had been. His Dad stands in the middle of it with an expression like he’s in pain._

_A gnarled hand lands on Matt’s shoulder. Long thin fingers dig in like claws. His heart beats so violently he can feel it vibrating all the way from his head to his toes. “Dad. Home.”_

_“Thanks for looking after him.” His Dad’s muscles are tense, like when he’s in the middle of a difficult fight_.

_“Dad!” One of his arms is heavy and stiff with plaster. The other reaches out for his Dad. “Dad! Dad! Home! Please! Home!”_

_The gnarled hand pulls him back. He’s not going home. His Dad isn’t taking him home._

_“I’ll be back after work Matty.” Slight choked sound in his Dad’s voice. “Behave for your Grandma.”_

Why, he thinks as he tries to get his breathing under control, is he thinking about that?

He feels about his bed for Toothless. The heart turned off somehow. He can’t hear it. His hands find the soft plush under Lucky’s chin. Silly stealing dog.

Foggy snores softly at his side. What is he supposed to do? Foggy said to wake him for anything, but it doesn’t seem fair to disturb him.

“Jarvis,” Matt whispers. The movement hurts his jaw. “I feel weird. Maybe I’m upset?”

Soft hum of lights turning on overhead. “I believe Mr Nelson would wish to be awoken for this instance.”

It takes a few moments for Foggy to snort, then sit upright. “What’s wrong? Do you need more painkillers?”

Matt shrugs. He’s not sure. “My eyes are prickling. I’m sad?”

“Ah.” Foggy’s heart slows. “Well the cure for sadness is hugs. And doughnuts, but I think the first option will suit you more.”

Hugs help. It’s good to rest his head on Foggy’s chest, directly above his heartbeat. The sound thuds through him. Comforting. He shifts, trying to find an angle that doesn’t press too hard against his jaw. Using Toothless makes it better. “I might drool on you.”

“What’s a little drool between friends?” Foggy’s arm curls around his back. “If you soak me, I might need to move you to change my shirt. Other than that, we’re good. We are good, right? You were a bit out of it yesterday.”

Yesterday is a jumble of memories with huge gaps of empty space in between. Right now is emotions he can’t name, all twisted up in his gut. “I had a dream. I don’t know if it was bad. I just feel weird.”

“Might be the drugs.” Soothing pressure of Foggy’s arms around him. “Want to talk about your dream?”

His mind pieces together what must’ve happened after the dream. His Dad turning and walking away. “No thank you.”

Want me to read you something? The book I’m reading right now is about Broadway musicals. I don’t think you’ll be interested in that, but I found a few more like ‘Go the Fuck to Sleep.’”

“I’m not a kid.” He grips the side of Foggy’s pyjama top. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“And ‘Go the Fuck to Sleep’ isn’t a kid’s book,” Foggy says. “Perfect combination. I could try to find your Thurgood Marshall book if you want, but then you’ll have to listen to me try to remember how to read braille.”

“Jessica doesn’t like the books. I can tell.”

“Well, if Jessica wants to criticise your coping methods she doesn’t have a leg to stand on. Just ask what number bottle of scotch she’s on.” A pause. “Nat thinks.” Slight sound of skin against leather as Foggy touches one of Toothless’s wings that’s spread across his chest. “Well, Nat thinks that if kids don’t grow up with the right nurturing and safety, parts of them don’t develop. She says that sometimes it seems like you’re a very scared child trying to navigate a dangerous world. She says we should try and make things simple and kind to help you cope.”

Matt twists the fabric of Foggy’s pyjama top. “My Dad was a good dad.”

“I know.” But Foggy’s heart wavers like he’s not sure.

“I miss him.”

“I know.” This time Foggy’s heart beats truth.

“Some of my best memories are when he read to me. A few chapter books, but mostly picture books. When people read to me, it’s almost like he’s there. It feels safe.”

Foggy’s hand rests over his own, where he’s probably twisting the material too tight.

“Foggy.” Matt forces his hand to relax. It’s easier with Foggy’s hand warm over it. “I really really want my Dad.”

“I know.”

***

“You think he’ll be OK?” Matt asks as Jarvis counts down the seconds to the security floor.

“I think he’ll be fine pal.” Bucky’s warmth is solid beside him. Rigid metal under Matt’s fingers. “You sure you want to do this today?”

“You and Sam say it might help, and I’ll be able to ask what security they’re trailing Foggy, Ned, and Anna with.” He grips Bucky’s metal arm tight. “Tony and Pepper ran security checks on them, right?”

“Extensive ones. Most of them came over from Shield, so Pepper wanted to make sure none of them were Hydra.” Rough sound of Bucky’s t-shirt moving as he shrugs. “Background checks all the way back to preschool. Psychological tests. Polygraphs. Natasha. These guys went through more checks than anyone else in the tower.”

That’s good, but… “It doesn’t mean they haven’t watched the video. It doesn’t mean they wouldn’t ever hurt me.”

Silence until there’s ding and whoosh of elevator doors opening. The security floor smells like industrial cleaner and hot plastic. Deep humming of lots of computers. Voices. So many voices that they all overlap each other.

“It’s OK Matty,” Bucky says softly as they step out of the elevator. “I got you. We ain’t going in there. We’re going someplace quieter.”

It’s instinct to move close. He tries to focus on the solid warmth of Bucky, Lucky panting on his other side, the sound his socks make as they scrape across the too rough carpet. By the time his breath starts to get back under control, they’re in a room. One other person in there with them.

He presses close into Bucky’s side. Strangers are never good.

“Matt, this is Maria Hill. She manages security in Stark tower.” Bucky makes some kind of gesture. “Hill, this is Matt Murdock. He’s interested in hearing how security is run around here.”

“Hello Matt.” No movement to indicate she’s offering her hand to shake. Good. She smells like gunpowder and hot plastic of computers. There’s a weight to her words that reminds him of Nat when she’s considering him. “I’m a good friend of Pepper. We meet every Wednesday in the Spa on the recreation floor. She’s told me about you.”

That’s good and bad. Pepper’s really smart, so Hill can’t be that bad if she’s friends with her. Can she? But the thought of people talking about him makes him queasy. “She - she has?”

“She says she’s very fond of you.” No lie in Hill’s heart. “And she says you like to know things are secure. The door to my office automatically locks when I’m in a meeting. I’ve set it not to allow anyone inside unless it’s an emergency, but it will let you out if you ask Jarvis to unlock it. Would you like to check it?”

Matt nods, stepping away from Bucky’s side toward the door. It’s soothing to check the lock again, again, again. To ask Jarvis to unlock it just to check he and Bucky can leave, then to quickly tell him to lock it again.

“It’s locked pal,” Bucky says finally. “You’re OK.”

He checks two more times to make sure the door won’t open, then turns to face Hill. This is polite, right? Social interactions are so draining lately that he hasn’t put much effort into politeness. The nuns would not be pleased. It’s hard to remember how to do this. Compliments are good, aren’t they? Compliments make smiles appear in people’s voices. He’d learnt sometime in high school that the easiest way to be seen as charming was to give a few compliments and talk as little as possible. People like to talk about themselves best anyway. “I like your door.”

No smile in Hill’s voice, probably because he complimented her door of all things. He’s about 60 percent sure he should’ve picked something else. But she sounds genuine as she says “Thank you. I chose it myself. All the doors on this floor are equally as secure. The frames are reinforced, the doors are steel, and the hinges are hidden. In the event of this floor being infiltrated, the doors go into automatic lock down, keeping the intruders away from the computers. Not that there’s anything to gain from breaking in, but we like to indulge the rumour that the central command is housed on this floor. It gives them something to focus on, and makes their moves easier to predict. In reality there is no central command.”

It’s something he can imagine Nat doing. Setting up a trap to draw the enemy in. “Would they make it up here?”

“No one’s made it past the lobby since I started working here, but I like to be prepared.” Her steps are brisk as she walks around a solid that must be desk. She reminds him of Nat, but the way she moves is more like Bucky. A soldier. Rolling sound of wheels as she pushes a large object toward them. “Here. Steve mentioned you like spinning chairs.”

Joking in Bucky’s voice. Someone he jokes with can’t be bad, can they? “You’re breaking my heart Hill. You never let me sit in your chair.”

“You never said you liked my door.” Her feet move back around the desk. Scraping sound of her taking something from a shelf behind it. “Sit Murdock.”

Finding the padded chair, Matt sits. The leather squishes beneath him. It’s really comfy, even better than the chairs in Foggy’s office. He doesn’t like the way the chair leans back so easily. The first jerky movement makes him grab at the armrest.

“You can control it better if you put your legs down.” Rough sound of Hill pulling a chair over. Not too close. A little in front and to the left of him. The spinning chair makes him taller. That helps. “Or there’s a lever on the right that locks it in place.”

“I got it pal,” Bucky says as Matt fumbles for the lever. Bucky’s already sitting at his right, close enough to feel his warmth. Warmth of Lucky coming from somewhere near Bucky’s feet.

“I’m handing you a miniature model of the tower,” Hill says as she does that. “There’s a cross section in case you want to open it up.”

Plastic beneath his fingers. Smoother plastic for the windows. A lot of the tower seems to be windows. A hinge on the side where it must open up. It’s strange to be able to ‘see’ what the tower looks like. Each window means a separate floor, right? There are a lot of floors. Intellectually he knew that, but feeling it for himself is different.

“I’ll be happy to go any part of security you wish,” Hill says. “Though I doubt I’ll have more to add than Jarvis and Barnes have already. What I can tell you is about my team. There are a number of us, and we’re all dedicated. To most of us, this is more than just a paycheck. We joined SHIELD to make a positive difference in the world. When it fell, we lost that. But here, Banner is curing cancer, the technology coming out of research and development would make your head spin, and occasionally Stark concentrates enough to actually make something useful in that lab of his. Once in a while, my people help the Avengers on their missions. Protecting this tower and the Avengers is our way of being a part of protecting the world again.”

The walls here are as solid as the residential floors. With no doors open, he can just make out the muffled sounds of typing and voices from the other side of the wall in front of him. A lot of people in that room. The idea of all, or even most of them being trustworthy is hard to accept. That can’t be true.

“We wanted to know about the people you have keeping an eye on Foggy and his folks today,” Bucky says after the silence goes on a while.

“Timon and Duke.” Movement of Hill nodding. “Both experts at hiding in plain sight. Foggy’s face is moderately well known, but his parents were covered by only a few small online newspapers. Romanov reports that risk of attack from one of the active threats is unlikely. Much more likely is risk of being hassled by civilians. We’re hopeful that his slightly altered appearance, along with the presence of his parent’s unknown faces will decrease that risk. Since the incident at the restaurant, we’ve decided to maintain less distance with our charges. The decreased time it takes to reach them if there’s a problem was calculated to be worth the increased possibility of people used to spotting surveillance becoming suspicious.”

Fiddling with the tower, Matt considers that. “How do you know they’d protect Foggy, Anna, and Ned?”

“They’re two of my best undercover operatives. I’d even peg them against Romanov. Timon has the kind of face and build that no one seems to see. I’ve had him trail people in plain sight for miles, and not one person has realised it’s the same person following them the whole time. Duke is four and a half feet tall with youthful looks. A touch of makeup and a little acting, and she’s indistinguishable from a young preteen. Adding a child to a party usually takes attention away from the other members, and if anyone does try to cause trouble, she’s taken down Romanov once or twice.”

That doesn’t guarantee anything. “You can’t know what will happen.”

Pause full of tense muscles from Bucky and slight tensing from Hill. Some kind of silent communication.

“I can’t know,” Hill says finally. “But I’ve run the scenarios and I’m confident in my estimate. Would you like to hear about some of Timon and Duke’s past missions? That might help you become more confident too.”

He guesses it can’t hurt. A shrug. “OK.”

***

Clint sits on the other end of the large couch and reads ‘Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse.’

The words are stumbling. Clint’s not very good at reading. But Matt’s familiar enough with the story to be able to follow along. The armrest cushions his head. The leather is smooth against his throbbing jaw.

“Crap.” Movement of Clint leaning off the couch. “What the hell is this supposed to say?”

Clinking of plastic as Steve sets something large on the coffee table. “Martguerita.”

“Martguerita,” Clint mutters. “What the fuck is up with this book? First we’ve got maniacs chasing people with axes and forced labour. Now it’s alcohol.”

“Matt,” Steve says from by the coffee table. “Are you hungry?”

Matt curls up tighter, pulling the soft blanket over his head.

“If you think rest is helping I’ll leave you for a bit longer.” Patience in Steve’s voice. “But if you think you’re dwelling on things in your head, I have something that might distract you.”

Distraction is best, even if he doesn’t want to move right now. Clutching the blanket, he levers himself into a sitting position. It’s exhausting. Today is exhausting, ever since Foggy left the tower for his day of bonding with Mom and Ned. “Foggy’s going to come back. He said.” Unless something goes wrong. Things always go wrong.

“Foggy’s planning on coming back in time for supper,” Steve says softly. “Do you want to come down here?”

He fumbles until he finds the edge of the large couch, then slips down to soft carpet. Aspirin doesn’t mess up his senses as much as codeine, but things aren’t as sharp as they usually are. Though maybe that has more to do with buzzing anxiety. Steve’s warmth is down on the ground by the coffee table. It’s comforting to lean against solid muscle and familiar sharp soap scent. “People leave. One day they’re there, then they leave. And you don’t expect it to happen until after it does, then you look back and see the signs. You see things you should’ve done. What if I did something wrong, and he doesn’t come back this time?”

“I know what it’s like to feel responsible when you lose someone.” Steve’s voice vibrates through him. Nice. Soothing. “It eats you up inside. You think ‘if I’d just done something differently.’ That self criticism is something I deal with every day. Letting it consume me led down some dark paths. It’s hard, but you need to try to accept that you’re only human. You can only make choices based on things you know at the time. You have limitations like everyone else. We’ve taken every precaution we can to keep Foggy and the others safe. We can’t keep him locked up forever. It wouldn’t be fair to him. He has the right to enjoy the life he has.”

Life is terrible. Everyone is going to die, and life is terrible.

The next few moments are filled with Steve applying deep pressure, and Lucky whining and nudging his hands. He doesn’t cry, but it’s a close thing.

“Y’know.” Movement of Clint casually swinging his feet off the side of the couch. “If you focus on all the shit things, then you don’t notice the good stuff. Why worry about all the things that might happen, when you can think about all the good things that are happening? Like the moment you knock out a guy with a single punch. Or petting a dog. Or the taste of pizza. Life can be short, and that fucking sucks. But what you get out of life is up to you. I bet Foggy’s having the time of his life right now.”

In all his worry over Foggy not coming back, Matt hadn’t thought about that. “Foggy said they were going to see a musical. It’s called Mean Girls. He’s been wanting to see it for a while.”

Steve withdraws from the hug, but his arm stays resting across Matt’s shoulders. It’s different to how Bucky does it. Bucky loops an arm around his shoulders casually, and occasionally with an air of nervousness. Steve drapes an arm around him like it’s a battle move. Steady and calculated. It’s no less comforting. “I think he’ll enjoy that. We have five hours until he comes back. Do you think he’ll be happier if you’ve spent that time helping yourself, or staying under the blanket when it’s not helping?”

Steve is really manipulative. Matt plays with Lucky’s ears. The dog likes it when he scritches behind them. “My stomach is weird, and my thoughts are racing. I’m anxious. So I should try calming things. Stories and soft blankets and doing things with my hands.”

“You’ve had a problem straying outside of your comfort zone when it comes to foods,” Steve says. “Foggy told me it’s become worse since you were hurt. Cooking and heavy work helped make some breakthroughs, but you occasionally go through bad patches. Now you’re going through a bad patch, and since you can’t use a straw for a while to do heavy work for your mouth, I thought we’d try some painting.”

Matt perks up, curious. Plastic on the coffee table. Large and flat. Like the containers Matt plays with dried rice, cooked spaghetti, and other things in. Dried macaroni is his favourite so far because they’re all different shapes and have patterns he can trace. It’s calming like the treasure box, and it’s also supposed to help him get used to the smells and textures of foods. Lots of smells from the tray now he’s focused on it. Faint like the food is sealed. Strawberry, chocolate, apple, avocado. Stronger smell of soap.

Soft sound of Steve placing a towel across coffee table, then taking out the sloshing bowl from the tray. “Wash your hands first. Each of the jars has a spoon in. There’s a large piece of paper in the tray. The objective is to use the foods to finger paint a picture, but you can eat as much or as little from each jar as you want.”

“This must be killing you,” Clint says from the couch. “Wasting food like this.”

Movement as Steve shrugs. “It’s for a good cause.”

Matt washes his hands carefully, then leans against the coffee table to map out the objects in the plastic tray. Large piece of paper. Four jars. He reaches for the one that smells like chocolate hazelnut butter, his stomach grumbling to life. He’s curious enough about the finger painting with food thing to give it a go, but there are some things too good to be smeared on paper.

***

The strawberry has bits in it. Gross. He uses a spoon to taste the blended fruit anyway. Ugh. The taste is sharp. Not too bad, but there’s gritty strawberry seeds everywhere.

“Told you.” Shuffling sound of Nat doling out cards for the new game Sam ordered. “Not a fan of mixed textures.”

“Anyone could’ve figured that out,” Bucky says, sitting by the coffee table to the left of Matt. “The way you nuke your oatmeal until it’s mush.”

Shuffling even closer to the coffee table, Matt dips his fingers in the strawberry. The mixture isn’t as thick as his smoothies, but it’s almost there. The gritty seeds make his skin twitch. A chunk of mushed strawberry touches his fingertips, and he shudders. He screws up his face, trying to push down the urge to body slam into the nearest hard surface to take his mind off the clawing sensation.

Steve is solid by his right side. “The other two jars don’t have bits if you want to try them first?”

Good idea. He can’t help but hum under his breath as he scrubs the strawberry off his hands. It’s nice of Steve to find something to distract him, and it’s useful to explore sensations that are on the edge of his comfort zone, but pulpy pieces of fruit are too much right today.

Thor hums thoughtfully. “Tis a most ponderous question.”

“Just answer without thinking like I do,” Clint suggests from the left of the coffee table.

Bucky snorts. “The last answer you gave was ‘Jello.’”

“The question was ‘what would make the world a better place.’ Lots and lots of special nutrition engineered jello. Solves world hunger. Solves like 90 percent of violent crime, ‘cause who’s gonna stay angry when they eat something that _dances_ at them every day?”

“Hold on my friends, I have the answer.” The massive warmth of Thor leans forward on the coffee table, sitting on the floor opposite Bucky. “I feel grumpy when someone I hold dear comes to harm.”

Hands as clean as they’re going to get, he tugs on Steve’s sleeve, then makes the sign for hug. His insides are all quivering again. They’ve been quivering on and off since after he tried to kill himself. Bucky gives great hugs, but his don’t have the firm deep pressure Steve’s have. Steve wraps arms around him, pulling him closer. The warmth and pressure make the itching tension in his muscles drain away. Did his Dad ever hug him like this? He thinks so. There’s a faint memory of hard muscles, power, and safety. His Dad hugged him in the hospital after the accident, didn’t he?

He wishes Dad were here now.

Whatever answer Nat gives, he misses it. It’s only when Steve’s voice rumbles through him that he realises her turn has been and gone. “I’m thankful for this. For friends being together.”

“You’re such a sap,” Bucky scoffs, but there’s slight wet in his voice. Bucky’s hand rests, gentle on Matt’s back. “Your turn pal. Finish this sentence. ‘I feel happy when…’”

The world is too balled up in anxiety to be happy. He’s not sure he’s ever been happy. He shakes his head against Steve’s shoulder.

“Let’s try another card.” Sound of thick card against card as Nat pulls one from the pile. “Two good behaviours I do are…”

That’s easier. They tell him good things about himself every day. Sam, Foggy, Nat, and Steve talk to him about the good actions he can take, and the not good ones. Pulling away from Steve, he thinks carefully. It can get confusing. A lot of the things he used to think of as good, like keeping his problems and worries to himself, are not good. “I try to eat, even when I don’t want to. And I tell Jarvis or wake someone after a nightmare so someone can help if I need them.”

“That’s right.” Proud smile in Bucky’s voice. “You’re good.”

His chest glows warm at the praise. He has a hard time fighting back a smile. Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe Fiona’s right and he’s just finding it difficult to recognise and remember positive feelings when he’s in a negative mindset. Maybe this is feeling happy.

***

The couch barely moves as Nat climbs on it. Skin against leather as she crosses her arms over the back of the couch beside him. “You know, concentrating on the elevator isn’t going to make them come back faster.”

Things weren’t too bad with games, Bucky and Steve either side of him, drawing careful shapes and names with thick apple sauce and slimy blended avocado. Only, now it’s sometime after lunch. He’d woken from one of his frequent naps to find everyone but Nat, Bucky, Bruce, and Tony gone. Tony and Bruce seem to be at the end of some kind of science binge judging by the way Tony smells like he took a bath in coffee, and Bruce speaks only in tired grunts.

His mind keeps replaying the sound of Dad walking away the very last time, only he doesn’t know if he’s remembering the right time. Did his Dad walk him home from school, or did they stop at the gym first? He wasn’t good at navigating back then, so he thinks his Dad must’ve walked him at least part way home. The last time he saw his Dad had to be in their apartment or close to it. He thinks he was in one of those moods where he’d quote Thurgood Marshall and other influential figures who spoke out about injustice and inequality. And his Dad was probably in one of his quiet moods that happened just before a fight.

What were his Dad’s last words to him? Did he bug him about doing his homework early so he didn’t stay up all night again? Did he try and persuade him not to wait up? Or was there something more meaningful? Something Matt didn’t listen to because he didn’t think that would be the last time?

“I want Foggy.”

Nat’s hand rests over his. “I know Lapushka.”

“I want Mom and Ned.”

“They’ll be here in three hours,” Nat says in that soft careful voice she uses sometimes when his insides are all twisted up. “In two hours you can help make supper if you’d like. Until then it’s free time. Did you decide what you wanted for snack?”

It’s difficult to disengage his thoughts from wanting Foggy. The anxiety coiling in his stomach leaves no room for hunger, but no food isn’t an option. He needs to eat the right number of calories. The right number of calories seems to increase almost every day. It always feels like too much, but that’s because he’s not used to eating large amounts. Usually there would be set meals or a limited range of choices, but since he’s on soft foods for a while, he can choose from the small range of choices and Jarvis can calculate how much of each he needs to eat. “I liked the apple sauce?” It’s made with the nice apples. Sweet, not tangy.

“There’s some more in the fridge.” Nat squeezes his hand. “Snack time is in half an hour. What do you want to do until then?”

***

Matt presses the piano key and the wrong note plays.

“No puppy.” Tony sighs. “That’s B. You need D.”

His shoulders hunch. His chest tightens like someone’s standing on it, and his eyes start prickling. Tony offered him lessons. Or rather, Tony pointed out that they hadn’t had a lessons for a while, and dragged him to the music room. And now Matt’s getting it all wrong. This isn’t even the hard part. He knows the notes. Why is he making mistakes?

“Right.” Skin against skin. Tony does something with his face. Pinches the bridge of his nose? “Wilson said today would be a hard day for you. Emotions near the surface. Yada, yada, yada. Little room for extra stress before overflow. Just do me a favour and try and save the tears for someone else's shift, OK?”

Blinking rapidly to try to make his eyes obey that order, he nods.

“I meant what I said before. Even if you’re shit at this, I’m not going to kick you out.” Uncomfortable tone enters the man’s voice. “I mean, it’s partly my fault you’re so shit. I promised I’d teach you. It was a dick move on my part to forget. I didn’t exactly have the greatest role model for a father. I’m doing my best here pup, but parenting is a heck of a lot more complex than the literature makes it out to be.”

Matt tries the note again, hitting the right one this time. They’re going through each section of the song slowly. It doesn’t sound right, but Tony says it will once they speed it up. “You’re not my dad Tony.”

“Right.” Movement of Tony nodding. “Wouldn’t want to take that job from Bucky Bear. He might maul me for it. I’ll be cool uncle Tony instead.”

He’s not sure he’ll ever understand what goes through Tony’s head. Still, the thought that people _want_ to stick around him is nice. “Bucky’s not my dad either.”

“You tried telling him that?” Another note. A chord. “Try the next part. B, D sharp, and F sharp together. This ones called a B chord.”

　

***

For all his waiting, Matt’s asleep by the time Foggy gets back.

“He fell asleep on the floor by the elevators,” Sam’s voice says among clattering of cutlery and overlapping footsteps. “He’s had a few moments, but nothing major. He had problems thinking of activities to calm himself down, but engaged well once some were offered.”

“That’s normal for him, isn’t it?” Worry in Mom’s voice. “Having trouble thinking?”

“He can get single minded when he’s anxious.” Clinking sound as Nat serves food. Smells like curry. “If you build something up in your mind until you think the world is ending, you’re not going to have much brainpower for anything else. He’s getting better at distancing himself from those thought processes.”

“And he tends to dissociate.” Cloth sound. Bucky shrugging a shoulder. “I used to have depersonalisation mixed with a type of dissociative amnesia, so I imagine it’s different for him. But sometimes the world felt so far away. Made it hard to think clearly.”

“He’s still worried about you not coming back,” Steve says, feet walking from the kitchen area to the table. “But he managed not to wind himself up as far as he has before. No irritability, self harm, or shouting.”

Frustration in Foggy’s voice. “I’ve told him I’m not going to leave a hundred times. How many times do I need to say it?”

“As many times as it takes for him to believe it,” Nat says. “He’s better than he was. When he first came here, he didn’t seem to understand why you hadn’t left already. Any time anything happened, he expected you to leave. Now, he expects you to stay. He doesn’t always believe that it’s possible, but he does expect you to stay.”

Matt levers himself up until he’s leaning over the back of the couch. Nerves flutter in his stomach. “Foggy?”

“Hey bud.” No more frustration in Foggy’s voice as he walks over. “What’s with the face? Is it because you overheard our handover? We can start having these chats on a different floor from you if you’d like that better?”

Matt shakes his head. No. “I don’t like people talking about me where I can’t hear. My imagination fills in the gaps, and it’s not good.”

Foggy’s hand on his hair. Soothing. “Sometimes things happen and I’m not sure how you’ll take them. I’m still going to need to talk about those things to Fiona or Steve so we can decide how to tell you.”

People give him bad news, and sometimes he’s not able to deal with the emotions it brings. He remembers.

“And Foggy needs space to talk about things that might be bothering him, just like the rest of us.” Slop sound of Sam putting some liquid in a plastic container. Smells like chicken and vegetables. The soup Matt helped make. It’s made from his usual thin soup with extra things blended into it. “Some of the things that bother him might be around you or this situation, but that doesn’t mean he’s angry or annoyed at you. He just has feelings and he’s allowed to talk them out with whoever he’s comfortable with.”

That makes sense. Foggy and the others tell him why it’s good to talk about feelings. Several of Nat’s books mention it too. “If you keep bad thoughts and feelings stuck inside, they can hurt you.”

“Look at you.” Foggy decides to mess up his hair. Why? “Mental health expert. Wellbeing extraordinaire, Matthew Murdock.”

Matt ducks out from the attack to reach for a hug. It’s good to feel Foggy. Here. Solid. Not leaving. “Did you have a nice day?”

“The show was great. Food was great. I managed to get tipsy on one beer. Until my digestive system gets its act together, I’m a cheap date. I think mom and dad had a good time.”

“I still don’t understand why there was so much singing.” Mom steps close. Her warmth bends down and there’s a soft press of lips to the top of his head. “Hello sweetheart.”

“It’s a musical mom.” False sounding exasperation in Foggy’s voice. “In musicals people sing.”

“I enjoyed it.” Even listening to his heart, Matt’s not sure whether Ned is lying. “You could hear the words. Not like some of the music around these days.”

Warmth leaves as Mom steps away from Matt. “I swear, you act like you’re eighty, not fifty six. You need to break out of your comfort zone. Maybe if you tried these things you complain about, you might actually like them.”

“And you act like you’re twenty eight, not fifty eight. These aren’t your glory days Anna. We agreed you weren’t going to go back to that.” Tension in Ned’s voice. It sounds wrong. Ned is always gruff even voice. Calm and predictable.

Matt’s fingers dig into the back of the couch hard enough to hurt.

Loud sound as Tony whaps a spoon against a bowl. “Break it up. I hate to say it Nelsons. You may be the owners of an impressive if very frankensteined 1966 Jaguar E-Type, but you’re doing a lousy job of auditioning to be the puppy’s parents. If this were televised, my vote would be for Cap and his pet assassin.”

“We try to keep conflict low around Matt,” Sam says quietly from somewhere by Tony. “It’s on the list of things he reacts badly to.”

A sound Matt hates in Anna’s voice. Upset. “You should spend the rest of the evening with them Ned. I’ll visit tomorrow with some treats for Steve. Franklin, I had a wonderful time. I hope you did too.”

She’s leaving? His stomach twists. She said she’d stay for supper. Lurching forward, he grabs her hand. “Mom.” He freezes. Wait. What did he just say? Dropping her hand, he tries to figure out how to stammer out an apology.

Mom’s hand cups his face before he can finish. “Sweetheart, it’s OK. I’ve thought of you as my son for years. You don’t have to, but if you want to call me mom, I’d be very proud.”

The thought is dizzying. Anna and Ned say they want to adopt him. He’s still not sure what to think about that, but this seems different. More solid. When did the concept of mom change from an unknown figure he’d sometimes make up stories about to Anna. A person he knows. A person he can call Mom.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, OK darling? I love you. I love both of you.” Her heart beats truth. It has for years when she says those words.

Mom is leaving, but she will come back.

***

“No,” Matt says firmly as he mixes the glaze. All the cake layers are cooked and cooling. Tomorrow they’ll put them together and heat up the sugar glaze to pour over the top of it.

“I just need to come down for one minute,” Steve says over the small computer’s speakers. “Me and Buck are fresh out of food and I’m a little hungry.”

“You can raid mine and Foggy’s fridge.”

“All you have are smoothies and apple sauce.”

“And chocolate hazelnut butter.” What’s Steve’s problem? Those are the best foods.

“Never fear Captain.” Click sound of Foggy putting one of the cake layers in a cupboard out of the way. “Faithful Foggy will save the day. Give me a sec and I’ll be up with a bag of oranges. I don’t think Matt will let you down here while there’s any clue to the thing that we’re definitely not making.”

Foggy’s footsteps disappear toward the elevator, leaving Ned’s steady pair moving around the kitchen area. Sam left a short while ago when he realised they didn’t have enough candles. Candles are very important for this cake. Steve is turning ninety-eight after all.

“Is the icing sugar all mixed in?” Matt asks, tipping the mixing bowl so Ned should be able to see it.

Ned’s footsteps move at their slow steady pace from the kitchen area to the table. “Scoop your spoon around the sides. There’s some clinging just above the mix.”

Carefully, Matt scrapes the inside of the bowl, then mixes again.

“That’s it son.” Ned’s warmth moves close. Closer than he’d like most people to get when they’re standing over him, but with Ned it’s OK. “I’d say it’s thick enough, but I’m not sure your mother would agree.”

Blinking, Matt sets the bowl on the table. It might thicken up anyway when they leave it overnight in the fridge, sealed so Steve can’t look inside. “Do you think she’d mind if I did call her mom?”

Scrape of Ned pulling back a chair and sitting down. “I think it’s something she’s been hoping would happen for a very long time. It would make her very happy.”

Matt fidgets, tugging at his sleeves. “I’m sorry I make things difficult.”

“Son.” Soft scrape sound of Ned moving his chair closer. “The most difficult thing about this situation is that we didn’t meet you sooner. That we didn’t have the chance to spend more time with you. You know, some days me and Anna talk about where you were before Foggy first brought you home. We talk about the amount of times we passed St Agnes. The number of times we must have seen you on the street and not noticed. You and Foggy went to the same elementary school. Anna once drove herself to tears remembering all the children she’d seen when picking up Foggy, and trying to remember if you were one of them. I met your father once.”

Matt’s heart leaps. “My Dad?”

“He came into the store. One of my employees recognised him and told me who he was. Battling Jack Murdock. A boxer. I only remember him because he looked guarded, like he was preparing for a fight. At first glance I thought he might be thinking of robbing me, then he pulled some cash from his pockets and said he needed better security for his door. Some teenagers kept trying to break in when he was at work and his son was home alone.” Ned sighs. “I thought about offering to babysit. Living above the store, it wouldn’t be a hardship to have one extra child around. But I didn’t know him well enough, so I didn’t offer. Those are the times we regret. When we could’ve helped you, but didn’t. You don’t make things difficult. You make our lives fuller.”

Lucky’s soft snores come from over by the couch. Tuna’s lighter ones almost completely covered by the noise. Matt focuses on them a moment. “People didn’t like my Dad. He had a hard time finding people to look after me while he went to work. That’s why I was home alone.”

“I think Foggy was about seven or eight,” Ned says. “So that would put you at six or seven?”

“Babysitters cost money,” Matt says defensively. “Most of them refused, and the few that didn’t weren’t any good anyway. I could cook and look after myself. It’s not like I needed them.”

Matt, I’m not blaming your dad.” Ned’s gruff steady voice slows. “I only wish I could have helped the both of you.”

For a moment, Matt picks at his sleeves, letting himself imagine a world where Anna and Ned became friends with his Dad. Spending afternoons after school with Foggy. Anna giving him hugs and attention after the accident, whether he knew how to ask for them or not. Maybe his Dad wouldn’t die in this story. Or maybe if he did, there would be someone to gather him up every time he cried afterwards, instead of telling him to stop. Maybe there would be feelings talks and therapy, and all of this wouldn’t seem so foreign.

He’d grow up soft and crazy without Stick. That’s where the story starts to shatter. “Steve says we can’t change the past, but we can be here for each other now.”

“I’d like that.” Truth in Ned’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers for this chapter =
> 
> unpleasant childhood flashback, but no blatant abuse. Usual strong emotions and Matt's messed up head. Irrational thoughts and views of the world. Discussions of abandonment and losing people. Usual sensory issues. 
> 
> As usual if you think anything should be added to this list, let me know in the comments.
> 
> Notes =
> 
> The movie Matt mentions Nat watched is the indie film 'Ink.' A few scary topics covered in that film including an absent father, suicide, death, and a child in jeopardy. Matt would've found some of it tough including the whole child being kidnapped by monsters, wanting her father to come and save her. I think he'd appreciate the child's fierce attitude, the awesome but tear jerking ending, and he'd LOVE the music. Seriously, go see it for the music alone. I think he'd also like one of the main characters who happens to be blind. 
> 
> Clint's short conversation about sums up his coping techniques. He'll complain about bad moments, but most of his focus is on good moments. That's not to say he doesn't have issues (for example there's a reason his vents are full of emergency stashes of food and other supplies), but if you can manage to remember the good, the bad is less overwhelming. 
> 
> It can be very difficult to remember good moments when you're depressed. Matt's working on that.
> 
> An aside about the sensory / messy play Steve is introducing. This is an important way to learn how to cope with sensory issues, which is why they're doing it. Matt didn't get the chance to engage in much messy play as a child. It could be argued this is part of the reason for his difficulty managing and expressing emotions. It's thought messy play is one way young children learn how to manage their emotions. 
> 
> Imaginative play is another way children learn to manage emotions, and to interact socially. Again, while Matt engaged in stories while young, he didn't have much opportunity to play with others, and he wasn't encouraged to play with toys. 
> 
> This is a good place to state that I'm not saying his father did a bad job raising him. He did the best he could with the knowledge and resources available to him. Unfortunately through his desperation to help his son, his mental illnesses, pride, and his limited social network not all the choices he made resulted in the best outcome for Matt. In some ways Matt developed faster than his peers due to this environment (academically) and in other ways he developed slower and eventually skipped over a few steps when the gaps weren't addressed and Matt grew old enough to use his intellect and other coping strategies to cover up his difficulties.


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has ups as well as downs. The next chapter has more highs than this one if you want to wait for that.
> 
> See the end notes for possible spoilery trigger warnings.

Matt leaves Steve tucked up in soft blankets on the large couch, surrounded by art supplies. Today is going to be a quiet birthday. Drawing, cake, fruit (not bananas), and a remote placed next to him so he can play as much Studio Ghibli as he wants. Matt wants to sit down next to Steve and share the quiet with him, but not yet.

Jarvis counts down to zero and the elevator opens on the Legal Floor. Lucky pads beside him as Matt marches to Foggy’s office, ignoring the stranger’s heartbeat further down the corridor.

The door clicks open under his hand. His heart beats too fast in his chest. “Mom and Ned are getting a divorce.”

Foggy’s footsteps stop partway across the office. “Wait. What?”

“Mom and Ned are getting a divorce!” Matt makes a wide gesture, trying to express the enormity of the statement. “And one of them is probably going to move away because it’s going to be hard to find a place close. Maybe they’ll lose the store and they’ll both move away. They won’t talk to us as much anymore. They won’t take us places on Sundays. They might leave and never come back. And they won’t adopt me if they’re not married.”

Foggy’s footsteps move past him. Click as he closes the office door. “Breathe buddy. This might be one of those moments when you blow things out of proportion.”

How can he be blowing this out of proportion? This is terrible. “Foggy, they’re going to leave.”

“Use your lawyer brain buddy.” Foggy grips his shoulder, shaking slightly. Worry in his voice. “Give me some evidence.”

He has tons of evidence. A million pieces. “They keep arguing, and now they aren’t talking to each other.”

A pause. “Is that it?”

What does he mean ‘is that it?’ They argued. Ned sounded frustrated, which for him is practically raging. Mom sounded sad. “They stayed to talk to Steve after he blew the candles out, and they didn’t talk to each other at all. Their muscles were tense when they left together in the elevator. I think Ned’s really angry at Anna for going after the traffickers.”

Heavy sigh from Foggy. “You know what, I’m angry at her too. She went off to pretend to be Liam Neeson, and we needed her here. You needed her. Aren’t you mad at her for that?”

Matt slowly shakes his head. “She’s here, and she lets me call her Mom.”

Strange chuckle that sounds like upset. “That’s all it takes for you, isn’t it? Any one of us could trample all over you, and you’d forgive them if they showed you a little kindness.”

It’s not a little kindness. It’s everything. “She lets me call her Mom.”

Foggy’s arms wrap around him. They grip too tight. “Except me, right buddy? If I was a jerk, you’d get angry with me about it?”

“You’re Foggy,” Matt says firmly. “You’re perfect.”

Foggy squeezes tighter before stepping back. “My ego appreciates the flattery Matt. My common sense does not appreciate the things it says about your head. You’re allowed to feel angry at people for hurting you, including at me. And sure, it’s probably better to discuss those feelings like adults, but sometimes people argue. Mom and dad argue. Me and you argue. That doesn’t mean we’re going to leave each other.”

Matt frowns.

Foggy’s heart jumps. “Oh God. Every argument we had, you thought I was going to leave?”

“Not every argument,” Matt says lamely. Not the arguments he knew were jokes, just every other one. From protesting which foods were allowed in their shared fridge in college, to the night Foggy found out about Daredevil. “Mom and Ned can argue, and it doesn’t mean they’re going to leave?”

“That’s it in a nutshell buddy. People go through rough patches. If their relationship means something to them, they’ll work on it. Mom and dad are masters of the feelings talk. They’re working through it. I think they’ll be OK.”

Now seems like a good time to sit down. The carpet is too rough, but Lucky’s warmth is nice to rest his head against. “Why is life so complicated?”

“Hey, if I knew I’d be writing self help books instead of lawyering my ass off.”

The dog doesn’t seem to mind the hug. Matt listens to Lucky’s breathing, letting adrenaline leech away. People leave so easily. At the orphanage one wrong word was all it could take for a nun to ask not to work with him anymore. Foggy could leave, but he won’t. So where do other people fit into this? How are relationships supposed to work?

“We made fact cards, remember?” Foggy asks from above him. The looming is OK with Foggy. Even a little comforting sometimes, because it makes Foggy seem bigger and more powerful than he usually is. Powerful Foggy is a nice thought when Matt’s feeling small and vulnerable. “Mom and dad will never choose to leave you.”

His old life had facts too. Like ‘people always leave’ and ‘you could be in control of your emotions if you weren’t so lazy’ and ‘everything that goes wrong is your fault.’ Only those weren’t right. They hurt him. So he had to tear them down. It’s hard to know what’s supposed to go in their place. No one ever taught him these things. “Maybe Nat has books on this?”

“That’s it buddy. Use your nerd powers to study your way through this.” Slight grunt of pain as Foggy leans down to ruffle his hair. “Way to start engaging in your therapy.”

***

_“You want this,” Old Spice says, and he’s… he’s…”Tell me you want this.”_

Matt whimpers, trying to curl up and freeze at the same time. Shudders pass through him, making it difficult to grip the leather beneath him. Wet laps at his hands. Then soft fur under his fingers.

“You’re in the tower,” a soft voice says. “It’s Steve. You’re here with me and Lucky. You’re safe.”

Keeping one hand on the rough smooth of the couch, Matt strokes Lucky’s smooth head. His breath comes too fast. He tries to remember how to slow it.

This still happens. Nightmares. The fear and disorientation afterwards. It is getting easier to ground himself, even if it takes a long time to convince himself that someone isn’t lurking nearby, ready to attack.

“Matt,” Steve says. Not far away. On the couch? “Can you tell me where you are?”

’Couch.’ His hands shake as he signs the word. His fingers go back to grip Lucky’s collar as soon as he’s finished. Sometimes when his heart is pounding like it is now, it feels like he might float away into nightmares if he doesn’t hold onto something solid.

“Good job.” Steve’s voice is soothing. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

It takes long hazy seconds before he remembers what he’s supposed to do. He practised this with Sam. When he’s upset, he finds it difficult to communicate. He needs to practice telling people what’s wrong, so they know he’s not hurt. He signs ‘bad dream.’ The signs only use one hand, so this time he gets to keep his fingers tight around the collar.

“You’re doing great Matt. Can I do anything to help?”

His hand reaches desperately toward empty air. Quivers because he’s half convinced someone other than Steve is going to see the movement and grab. His breath stutters when he can’t find what he’s looking for.

“I’m here.” Steve’s warmth nears until it’s close enough to lurch toward. It’s good to press himself against the taller man’s side. To feel that steady heartbeat echo through him. “You’re safe. It was a dream, and it’s over.”

The part about being safe is hard to believe. Matt’s senses are still jumbled. Old Spice and the others could be standing around him, and he wouldn’t know. He shudders.

“Can you tell me what the dream was about?”

This is something else he’s supposed to at least start thinking of doing. But talking about the dreams is hard. Every day in therapy, he tells Fiona something about what happened that night, or what happened that day in prison, or Wright and the van. That’s different. Speaking about these things isn’t as frightening with his head calm from sand-tray therapy and theraplay with Foggy to look forward to. “Old Spice,” he whispers, then tenses, scanning the room.

No sudden movements. No rush of sound as someone leaps at him. But maybe they’re waiting. Old Spice was good at waiting and watching.

Steve’s arm rests over his shoulders. A solid weight. “Where’s Dennis Short now?”

Here, his instincts scream at him. Right here, watching, and sooner or later he’s going to leap out and grab Matt. He’s going to say that Matt moved, or breathed, or made a noise. That Matt’s asking to be noticed. “Old Spice is in Rikers. His sentence is years. He can’t get me. Except…um…” Steve stays silent at his side. Lets him untwist the words. “Fisk doesn’t trust Old Spice. He said they knew Captain Darius was going to try and have him killed. He had him and Baseball Bat beat up. But before that, Fisk was going to bring me to them if I stepped out of line. He said Captain Darius came from a lot of money, so he might work with him again, so maybe - maybe he’ll work with them again too?”

“Fisk was trying to build capital by investing in groups like the trafficking ring,” Steve says. “That’s why he wanted you out of the way. He thought you’d threaten that. Now those funds are cut off he’s angry, but he has some sense. Nat says he won’t try anything to hurt you or any of the rest of us. Not for now at least. I don’t know how she’s so sure of that, and I’m not sure I want to know, but I trust her. Do you trust her?”

Pulling Lucky closer, Matt nods. He trusts Nat. “Are you having a good birthday?”

“I’m having a great birthday.” Truth in Steve’s heart. “It’s peaceful. Just what I needed. And I love my new art supplies.”

Matt’s chest glows warm. He’d spent a lot of time with Foggy picking out the right ones. “What are you drawing?”

Rough sound of paper as Steve picks up the sketchpad. “You, curled up with Lucky. Here, can I borrow your hand?”

Curious, Matt holds out his hand.

Steve’s larger hand closes around it gently, nudging all the fingers down but one. Then he guides the finger tip to the rough surface of the sketch book. Traces a curved shape. “This is your body. Head, back, legs. You curl up very small when you sleep, even under the weighted blanket. The top half of your body is leaning on Lucky, and the side of your head is resting on top of Lucky’s neck. Your arms fold around him here. You both look very peaceful.”

It’s difficult to translate 2 dimensional images to 3 dimensional ones, but Steve’s voice helps the picture form in his head. “What does - what does Old Spice look like?”

Slight stutter to Steve’s voice like he hadn’t expected the question. His hand leaves Matt’s, but his arm stays solid around his shoulders. “He’s tall. About as tall as I am. Bulkier than me. There’s a smug look to his mouth that always makes me want to punch him. His hair is shorter than most of the guys in the army had it. It’s a reddish blond, light enough that some of the time he looks completely bald. Veins stand out on his arms and neck where he’s lifted too much weight too fast.” A pause. “Oh, and he’s butt ugly.”

Matt splutters a surprised laugh before scanning the room to make sure no one heard. “Steve, be serious.”

“I am.” Smile in Steve’s voice. “You can trust my artistic eye. I think Bucky would say something along the lines of a face like a baboon’s ass.”

“Your heart isn’t serious,” Matt accuses, grinning despite himself.

“OK, you caught me. It’s not that bad. Dennis Short has little to no neck. He definitely needs to set himself a reminder not to skip leg day. His face is about average. Small brown eyes, a roman nose, that smug mouth. He’s just a man Matt. What you went through made you see him as big and terrifying. That’s going to be difficult for you to challenge, but when you do, I want you to remember that he’s human. He’ll bleed and cry and stay locked in jail like anyone else in his place. And one day he’ll die. I don’t know what you believe, but I believe on that day God will see what he’s done and judge him for it.”

Dennis Short is rough hands everywhere, crooning in his ear, heavy feeling of guilt for making Old Spice notice him, pain. The few times his dreams try to conjure up a visual of him, it’s glimpses of a giant bear with sharp claws and flashes of teeth. Some days it feels like Old Spice is lurking close-by. Watching. Waiting. It’s hard to convince himself that Old Spice doesn’t have the power to hide nearby, outside of the reach of his senses.

Fiona says that sometimes he doesn’t work with them. She says they’ll keep helping him, but if he’s going to become more stable, he needs to help himself too. Maybe this is part of what she means. Maybe it’s time to face up to some of the scarier parts of his mind. “Steve, I forgot what Cocaine’s real name is.”

Steve’s hand grips his shoulder lightly. “His name was Albert Jones.”

Albert Jones. It sounds so ordinary. “What does- what did Albert Jones look like?”

***

“I can do it,” Matt says firmly.

“I know you can bud.” Foggy sits on the side of Matt’s bed, making the mattress dip. “But show me anyway, so I don’t stay awake all night worrying? You know I don’t cope well without my beauty sleep, and I have work tomorrow.”

Matt huffs, but signs the words ‘bad dream.’ “Then Jarvis will remind me where I am, and to breathe, and to stroke Lucky. If I’m really upset he’ll tell someone. And if I say ‘safety plan’ or sign ‘help.’” He signs ‘help.’ Foggy isn’t going to let him get away without practising both signs. “That means I think I might hurt myself, and he’ll get someone.”

“And it doesn’t matter if we’re sleeping.” A note in Foggy’s voice, like he’s waiting for something.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re sleeping,” Matt echoes obediently.

“You can come to us, or we’ll come to you, even if we’re busy.” Foggy’s hand pushes lightly at his shoulder. “Matt, repeat the words for me. I need to know you understand this.”

A lump forms in his throat. “I can come to you, or you’ll come to me, even if - even if you’re busy.”

“Because you’re important.”

“Because.” He grips the silk sheets. “Because I’m important?”

“Good job Matty. Now budge over. If you’re going to try sleeping on your own again, we’re going to do this right. This story is way better than any of the ones Nat reads you. Ready yourself for the masterpiece that is ‘The Very Hungover Caterpillar.’”

***

_“Disgusting,” Dirt pants down at him. “Fucking disgusting whore.”_

_“This is where naughty little boys go when they die.” Grandma jabs a bony finger at the page. A large demon standing above a group of men, women, and children, all of them writhing in pain. “They go to Hell. Do you want to go to Hell Matthew?”_

_What he wants is Dad, but he shakes his head anyway, clutching Honey to his chest. The honey badger whispers, reminding him that his Dad is a real superhero like Captain America. Always ends a match on his feet. That’s like a superpower. Dad will be able to tell how much Matt hates it here. He’ll sense it and come running back, all the way from work. Any moment now._

_“Get on your knees,” Old Spice orders, and Matt does._

_“Open your mouth,” Old Spice orders, and Matt does._

_Any moment now and someone will come. Any moment now and someone will save him. Any moment now. Any moment now. Dad? Dad, where are you?_

“Matt?”

Worn carpet underneath him. Wet lapping at his hands. His hands come up automatically to grip Lucky’s fur.

“You’re OK Matt. You’re in the tower. You’re safe. It’s Tuesday the 5th of July. It’s Sam. You’ve got me and Lucky here with you.”

It’s difficult to gain control of his breathing, even with Lucky’s help. It feels like the air is being punched out of his lungs. “They’re here. They’re here.”

“Matt.” How does Sam sound so calm? “Let’s breathe for a minute. OK?”

“They’re here.” Or he’s there, wherever there is. The worn carpet beneath his sprawled legs isn’t couch or bed. He doesn’t recognise it. Where did Wright take him? “There was a closet. I was tra-apped. They’re here, and they’re going to get me. And - and Old Spice is going to notice, and I’m going to be bad, and I want my Dad. I want my Dad to come get me.”

“Matt.” Still that steady calm in Sam’s voice. “Tell me where you are.”

He doesn’t know. There’s worn carpet and Lucky. Where is he? “Sam?”

“I’m here,” Sam says. “You’re safe. Nice slow breaths, all the way down to your stomach.”

Matt breathes slow and strokes Lucky. The panic is hard to ignore, but Sam’s voice is calm. Would Sam sound so calm if Old Spice and the others were close like his brain says they are? He’s not sure. All he knows is this is something he’s practised a million times over. Grounding and calming himself. His body knows what to do, even if his brain isn’t sure why he’s not still panicking.

Thoughts flow easier when the fear dulls from sharp spikes to a constant prickle. “I had a bad dream?”

“Yeah man, just a bad dream. You’re awake now. It’s over.”

Moving a hand from Lucky’s nudging, he brushes the worn carpet. “I don’t - I don’t know where I am.”

“You’re in the tower,” Sam says. His warmth is close enough to feel, but he sounds too far to touch. Low down to the ground with Lucky and Matt. “In the hallway outside your flat. You sleepwalked here.”

Foggy, Bucky, and Steve say he sleepwalks sometimes, but he hasn’t woken up outside the bed he went to sleep in for a long time. It’s disorientating. Where in the hallway is he? His head is reeling too much to tell.

“I think you’re scared,” Sam says. “What are you going to do to calm down?”

He used to go to the communal lounge to calm down after nightmares. Being surrounded by everyone’s scents helped. But there’s a writhing scared feeling in his stomach, and suddenly he wants something else. “My room. I don’t - I don’t know how to get there.”

“You’re close. About ten steps away from your apartment. Do you want me to guide you?”

That would help. Nodding, Matt reaches out.

Each step sends a stab of panic shooting down his spine. His heart pounds in his ear despite measuring his breaths. It helps when he feels the closeness of the objects around him, obvious enough for him to be able to notice, even as unfocused as he is now. A doorway. He takes his hand off Sam’s elbow to touch the door-frame. The doorway to his and Foggy’s apartment.

His brain works. Orientating himself. Bringing up the map of the apartment. If he follows the wall to his left, he’ll find the doorway that leads to his bedroom. It still feels like Old Spice might be watching him, but knowing where he is helps him keep moving.

His fingers find the doorway to his bedroom. Then the bed. He follows the edge around to the other side, then drops to the floor. Fumbles for something that has to be there. His muscles relax as he feels the smooth wood of his cooling down box. Levering it open, his hands fist around silk of his Dad’s robe.

His chest aches. He wants Dad, but his Dad’s not here. His Dad is never going to be here.

A knock on the door-frame. Sam. “Can I come in?”

Matt nods, remembering at the last moment to raise himself up so Sam can see him over the bed.

Steady footsteps, then warmth as Sam crouches by his side. “Does this help?”

“Sometimes.” Not today though. Not while he wants his Dad here so badly that it hurts.

“It’s OK if sleeping alone is too much for you right now.” Sam sounds like he’s picking his words carefully. “We want to help you make progress, but we want to do that safely. If sleeping alone is important to you, then we’ll help you reach that goal, but we need to remember what tends to happen when you push yourself too fast.”

He falls back on old habits. He starts hurting himself, or pushing people out, or wanting to die. Lucky rests his head on his arm. Managing to force one hand to let go of the robe, Matt grips the dog’s collar.

Another set of footsteps enter his bedroom. Foggy. “Hey, you guys had a midnight party and you didn’t invite me?”

The feelings splinter inside his chest, stabbing his heart. It’s too much. Keeping one hand fisted over Dad’s robe, he reaches toward Foggy’s voice.

Slight grunt, then thump as Foggy’s warmth appears on the floor next to him. Arms wrap around him and hold him close. “I have you Matty. You’re OK.”

He’s not OK. He’s really not. “I need him, and he’s not here.”

Foggy squeezes him tight enough for Matt to worry it might be hurting him. “I know buddy.”

“I needed him, and he didn’t come back. Why didn’t he come back? What did I do wrong?”

Foggy sighs. A wet sound. His hand rests on the back of Matt’s head. “You didn’t do anything wrong Matt.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Why isn’t he ever good enough? Why do other kids get families and hugs and ice cream in the park, and all Matt gets is heartache. “Why does everyone always leave?”

“I’m not leaving Matty,” Foggy whispers into his hair. “Matt, I’m not leaving.”

***

“The demon is back on top of the hill today,” Fiona points out once he finishes the sand-tray.

Today Matt chose the figures that feel like a family. A mother, a father, a son, a daughter. He likes surrounding them with a solid fence and giving them all kinds of things they may want. The withered demon doesn’t get any gifts like the others, but sometimes he joins them inside the fence.

Not today. “He doesn’t need to be on the hill. It’s not like he can protect them anyway.”

Fiona sits next to him on the floor of the sand-tray room. Small movements suggest she’s scanning the tray. “What do you think you’re feeling today?”

Feelings are difficult, but he’s done this enough times that he can guess what his unconscious mind is trying to say in the tray. “I don’t think I’m good enough.”

“Good enough for what?”

“To be loved.”

Scribble sound of Fiona writing something down. “Do you think that’s why you haven’t eaten yet today?”

They tried to get him to eat at breakfast, but he didn’t. They offered him many different things to eat. He couldn’t eat any of them. “I had a bad dream. About Old Spice, Dirt, and the others.”

“Do you remember why it’s good to talk about the dreams you’re having?”

Nat had a book about that. They discussed it for a long time. “It’s like feelings. If you keep them locked up inside your head, they can grow big and hurt you.”

“Do you think it will help if you tell me what happened in your dream?”

Maybe, but “I can’t. I can’t.”

***

Matt expects Foggy to be gone for theraplay, but the man is ready in the communal lounge when therapy with Fiona finishes. Usually theraplay starts with Foggy asking Matt if he’s hurt anywhere, and soothing the things Foggy calls injuries with cream.

Today Foggy spends the first ten minutes of theraplay holding Matt close. “You know I love you, right Matty?”

Confused, Matt nods against Foggy’s shoulder. He’s not sure why, but for some reason Foggy loves him.

“We’re going to get through this Matt,” Foggy says after another long pause. “Somehow we’re going to get through this.”

***

“Please don’t ask me to do this,” Matt says as Claire finishes placing the containers on the coffee table.

“You’re still losing weight,” Claire says. “We agreed that we’d drop the weight gain shakes if you stuck to your meal plan and started gaining. That’s not happening, so we need to try something else.”

Kneading the soft blanket between his hands, Matt backs as far into the corner of the couch as he can. “I’m trying. I was trying.”

Foggy’s feet approach the couch. His hand squeezes Matt’s shoulder. “I know he’s still losing but he’s been trying hard until today. He doesn’t always manage to eat the recommended amounts, and he’s still moving around too much, but he’s trying.”

“I know we decided this after his weigh in this weekend,” Bucky says from the opposite end of the couch. “But today ain’t the best time. You want to tell Claire the problems you’re having today Matty?”

No, he doesn’t. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “She’s going to shout.”

“You’re in luck.” Cloth against wood as Claire sits on the coffee table opposite him. “I used up all my shouting while yelling at dumbass patients in the ER last night.”

He keeps on trying to explain, but his words are even more messed up than usual today. Fiona says that’s what happens when you mix a tendency for speaking disorders with anxiety, PTSD, and lack of nutrition to his brain. “I had a bad dream, and now my throat hurts. It really hurts.”

“We scanned him and gave him a camera to put inside his mouth.” Strain in Bucky’s voice. Strain in a lot of people’s voices today. “He found that difficult. Gagged afterwards and almost threw up. But we got some footage. The tooth extraction sites are healing slowly, but OK. No signs of soreness around his throat. We think it’s a sensory issue triggered by the dream.”

Foggy’s warmth sits next to his on the couch. “He spat up the water he tried to drink this morning. Since then he’s refused to try anything, even oatmeal or soup.”

Matt digs his knuckles into the side of his jaw, wanting to chase away the weird feeling there. It’s an aching feeling, like after the tooth operation. A soreness in the back of his mouth too. Sam says that happens after wisdom tooth operations.

“Don’t do that buddy.” Foggy is gentle as he moves his fists back to the fluffy blanket. “You’re going to bruise that handsome face of yours if you keep that up.”

Matt grumbles, clutching the blanket. His body starts rocking slightly back and forth, trying to get rid of the itching tension.

“Matt,” Claire says softly. “I think we need to talk about feeding tubes again. Just to talk. We need to decide what we’re going to do if your condition gets worse.”

Cold digs into his chest. Like anger, only duller. Throwing the blanket off the edge of the couch, he wedges himself further in the corner of the couch.

“Matty.” Leather against cloth as Bucky moves closer. Movement before the blanket is placed in front of Matt again. “Listen pal. Claire said we’re only talking. Unless you get unwell really fast, then there’s no feeding tubes today. We need to talk about it, so if it does happen, we know what you think about it.”

Matt grabs at the blanket, then grabs at Lucky when the dog climbs on the couch next to Foggy. It’s hard to choose between soft fur and fluffy blanket. “I don’t want a tube down my throat.”

“I’m worried about that too,” Claire says, surprising him. Claire’s the one who brought up the whole idea of tubes, so the idea of her hesitating about any of it is strange. Why would she bring it up if she didn’t want to do it? “I know you have some triggers surrounding your mouth, and even though the nasogastric tube is inserted through your nose, you’ll still feel it at the back of your throat. It’s likely to trigger your gag reflex when it’s put in. I’m not sure you’ll be able to handle that.”

“I’m worried about his impulsive moments,” Foggy says from beside him. “When he’s hit with a large amount of emotion he can do things without thinking about it, like throwing the blanket away. It gets more frequent when he’s running low on mental reserves, like when he’s tired or hasn’t eaten in a while. I’m worried he might pull out the tube on impulse and hurt himself.”

“It’s unlikely Matt would be able to hurt himself pulling out an ng tube. Those things are pulled out by patients all the time. I can teach you or Matt how to replace it, if that’s something Matt decides he’s happy with.”

What are they doing? Matt expected them to talk about how they’re going to do it, not why they don’t want to do it. Are they mad at him for making this difficult for them? “I’m bad?”

A pause before Foggy pulls him into a hug. “Do you think we’re angry with you?”

Matt nods. Maybe not angry angry. Frustrated maybe. Or a slower more sneaky anger. He can’t tell all the different kinds.

Bucky’s hand rests on his head. Soft. Gentle. “We’re not angry with you Matty. We’re worried about you because you’re not getting better. We want to help you get better, so we need to make a plan to do that.”

“That plan may involve feeding tubes.” Shuffling sound of Claire leaning forward on the coffee table. “If it does I want you to be ready. I want you to be as on board with whatever has to happen as you can be. You said you wanted to stay in the tower. If you need a feeding tube and refuse to have one, it may be difficult for you to stay in the tower. Do you understand why?”

He understands “I’ll be bad. You’ll send me away.”

“Matty.” Exasperation in Foggy’s voice as he pulls away, keeping his hands firm on Matt’s shoulders. “This isn’t about you being bad. We’re not punishing you. We’re trying to make you better. That’s all this is about.”

“If we force feed you in the tower, we might run into legal problems,” Claire says. “And if we can, we don’t want to force feed you at all. I know you want to get better Matt. I know you can work with us on this.”

Tears prick at his eyes. “I’m trying. I’m really trying. It’s just hard.”

“We know you’re trying.” Bucky strokes his hair. Soothing. “We know it’s hard. You’ll get there. Right now we need you to tell us what’s got you so worried about the nasal gastric tube. Can you do that?”

They’re not going to pin him down and shove a tube in his throat, Matt realises eventually. At least not without talking about it first. Some of the panic fades. “It’ll hurt my throat. Like the dentist.”

Slight stutter to Foggy and Bucky’s breathing. Maybe they’ve realised the things Matt’s trying not to think about. This isn’t about pain. Pain he can handle. It’s about the memories and fear that comes with the pain.

“Let’s talk solutions,” Claire says briskly. “Sedation. I can see that you might have problems when the tube is inserted. We don’t want to use sedation too often with your body in the state it’s in. Usually we’d insert and remove an ng tube for feedings, but we could insert the tube under sedation and keep it in. That should get you past the most uncomfortable part. What do you think about that?”

Matt hums under his breath, tracing the bony lines of Lucky’s legs.

Foggy’s hands squeeze his shoulders. “Matty, what do you think about putting the nasal gastric tube in under sedation?”

They’re asking him? It’s strange to be involved in something he doesn’t want to happen. It pushes his mind off balance, making him think about the problem instead of staying wrapped up in panic. “It’ll be in my throat.”

“OK,” Bucky says, as if Matt said something much more intelligent than he did. “You think you’ll still have a problem with the ng tube after it’s put in.”

“And - um - I move in my sleep.”

“Good point.” Foggy makes a considering noise. “He’s sleepwalking half the night right now. Is the tube going to stay in through that?”

“It’s possible if we secure it well, it doesn’t catch on anything, and you don’t pull it out Matt. But it is likely it’s going to come out of position eventually. You’re much more active than you should be with the weight you’ve lost. There is another solution. A g-tube. It involves making a hole in your side so we can feed you directly into your stomach. It has some advantages. We wouldn’t need to put anything in your throat past the initial operation. It will be more discreet. It carries risks too. It’s a much more major procedure.”

A hole in his side sounds uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as a tube down his throat.

“I can go through the pros and cons with you if you’d like?” Claire asks.

Silence suggests it’s still him she’s talking to. He shrugs. This seems like a big decision.

“Let’s do that,” Foggy says.

***

“Ducky doesn’t have a mouth.” Matt places the plastic dinosaur on the coffee table along with her friends. “Not really. It doesn’t open or anything.”

Today has been a strange day. His skin hums with tension It hasn’t stopped for a long time. Longer than the nightmare he thinks. Claire talked about feeding tubes and weight gain shakes. Then activities they’d planned earlier. Cooking with Sam. Playing with apple sauce and chocolate hazelnut butter with Steve. The last activity hadn’t gone well.

“Matt?” Steve asks at his side. “Can you use the cards to tell me why you don’t want to paint with the sauces today?”

Matt grabs the dinosaur and presses her into the man’s hand instead. Closes the large fingers around plastic. “See, no mouth.”

“I see Matt.” Strange tone in Steve’s voice. Sad. Strange tone in everyone’s voice today.

“Why don’t you take a sip of water?” Sam asks, settling on Matt’s other side. “Your throat’s sounding pretty dry.”

The inside of his head feels like being inside an electrical storm. Everything is tense and turned upside down. “Toothless has a mouth, but it’s stitched on.”

“Can you try telling us why you don’t want to drink?” Plastic against wood as Sam places the cup on the coffee table by the dinosaurs. “There’s water on the table in front of you.”

It’s hard to explain. “Stick says some people can learn to control their bodies enough that they don’t need to eat or drink. Not for weeks, or even months. It’s about self control.”

“If I may interject,” Jarvis says from the ceiling. “Claims of people going months without water are unsubstantiated. There is a much larger body of evidence to suggest water and food should be consumed according to recommended daily requirements or functioning and health will be affected. For instance, you Mr Murdock, are currently showing classic deterioration in concentration and reasoning associated with lack of nutrients to the brain.”

Taking Steve’s hand, he traces the plastic of Ducky inside. “No mouth, see.”

Change in Sam’s breathing. “Matt, tell me what Ducky thinks about not having a mouth.”

That’s easy. “It’s better. Safer.”

***

His thoughts spin a little less with the cool flow of water in his veins from the IV.

Foggy sits next to him on the bed and reads something that isn’t a funny story. It’s things from the two forums Matt tries to check out sometimes. One about PTSD and the other for sexual abuse survivors. There’s an article about oral rape. Foggy’s voice is wet as he reads it.

It talks about oral rape adding another layer of difficulty to sexual assault because it forces the victim to participate in their rape. That can make it harder for them to understand that the rape wasn’t their fault. Foggy stops reading at that to tell Matt that what happened that night wasn’t his fault. Not one bit of it was his fault.

A woman talks about her experiences surviving oral rape. How it caused her to be sensitive to certain foods since she was more conscious of what she was putting in her mouth. Certain tastes, textures, and sensations became hard for her to cope with. Even brushing her teeth could set off a panic attack.

“Fiona says there’s a mix of things causing your eating disorder,” Foggy says. “Buddy, talk to me. Tell me what you dreamed about last night.”

The silk sheets on Foggy’s bed are smoother than his own. Less worn. “Old Spice. Cocaine.”

Long pause like Foggy doesn’t want to ask the next question. “What was Albert Jones doing?”

He wants to talk about it. Talking about dreams makes them have less power over you, and this dream has a lot of power over him. But it’s too much. “Old Spice made me, but I had a choice.”

“Matt.” Plastic against mattress as Foggy places the tablet down. “I don’t think anything that happened that night was your choice.”

It was. Matt frowns. “I knew what would happen. I made an informed decision.”

“Can you tell me what your choices were?”

He can’t. Not even to Foggy. He shakes his head.

“OK OK.” Foggy sniffs. His voice sounds wet. “I think I know what this is about. I’ve heard a few things. Let’s try to Steve Rogers our way through this. Matty, if I asked you if you like Cheetos or Fritos better, what would you say?”

Soft sound of Tuna jumping on the bed. Matt reaches his hands toward the warmth. “Both are gross.”

“I know, but those are your choices. Choose one.”

What is Foggy trying to say? “Fritos?”

“Why didn’t you choose carrot sticks?”

Matt pauses, fingers partway toward the cat. “Carrot sticks weren’t a choice.”

“Exactly bud. Do you like Fritos?”

Fritos are disgusting, even though their crumbs gets everywhere slightly less than cheetos. Another shake of his head.

“Choosing the least shitty of two shitty options isn’t a real choice,” Foggy says. “Just because you chose Fritos doesn’t mean you’d choose them in any other circumstance. You only chose them because you were forced to choose them. Does that sound like a real choice to you?”

Maybe not? He shrugs.

“Trust me bud, it’s not a real choice. The only choice you had was to try and survive, and there’s not a day that goes by that I’m not ecstatically happy that you chose to do that.”

***

Matt steps hesitantly into Bucky and Steve’s apartment that night, pausing when he hears soft footsteps. Steve’s still awake.

“Hi Matt.” The man doesn’t sound mad that he’s coming into his apartment in the middle of the night. Something in his voice. Worry? “What’s wrong? Did you have a bad dream?”

He always has bad dreams, but that’s not what this is about. “I don’t feel right.”

Scrape sound of Steve pulling a chair away from the small kitchen table. “Come sit down. Can I take a look at you?”

He’s making a big deal of nothing, he thinks as he finds the table, then the chair, sits. Lucky settles down by his feet. But this is what he’s supposed to do, isn’t it? “I need to tell someone if I don’t feel well?”

“That’s right.” Heavy sound as Steve sits in a chair next to him. Plastic sound of the first aid kit being placed on the table. “Not eating makes your body very fragile right now. It’s important that we know exactly what you’re feeling.”

Good luck with that. Matt barely knows what he’s feeling most of the time. And that was before the dull haze that hunger brings, and the sharp distraction of anxiety. His hands grip Toothless tight. It makes him self conscious to hold the toy outside of his bed, but Toothless has Foggy’s heartbeat, and he might not be able to be around Foggy for a long time. “My ear is hot and I smell like infection. Foggy’s immune system is - not good. I need to be quarantined.”

Steve makes a thoughtful noise. “How about we ask Foggy’s doctors if he needs to stay away from you?”

“He can’t get sick,” Matt says firmly. “I don’t want him to be hurt again.”

“OK,” Steve says. “We’ll keep him away from you until we can discuss it. Can I take your temperature? I’ll need to put a thermometer in your ear.”

Matt pulls his legs onto the chair. “Yeah, OK.”

The plastic is cold against his too hot ear. It makes the sore skin scream. Steve may not be as gentle as Bucky, but his movements are careful.

“Do you know what Cocaine did?” Matt asks, the abrupt words startling himself.

Steve’s hands stay steady; one keeping the plastic in Matt’s ear, the other steadying the opposite side of his head. “He raped you. I saw the charges.”

How many people saw those charges? How many people could google them right now and see? How many would stumble across the video in that search and be able to see everything else? “Do you know what Old Spice did?”

Beep of the thermometer. Steve pauses before pulling away. “Nat says he toyed with your head.”

Manipulation. Psychological torture. Even knowing that’s what Old Spice was doing doesn’t take away from the impact of what he did. “He made me choose.”

Steve stays silent in the chair in front of him. A solid presence. Safe.

It’s difficult to untangle the words. “He gave me two choices. Foggy says it wasn’t a real choice, but maybe it was. Maybe there was something I could’ve done. You would’ve thought of something. I know you would have. But I didn’t, and I should’ve.”

“Matt.” Steve sighs. “I wasn’t always a super-soldier. I know what it’s like to be physically overpowered by another person. They had power over you, and they chose to use that to hurt you. What happened that night is on them, not you.”

Matt knows that. Or at least part of him knows that, but right now it doesn’t make sense. “What if something’s wrong with me? What if there’s something about me that makes people want to hurt me?”

“You’ve got a high temperature,” Steve says. “I need to phone one of your doctors to let them know. Then I’d like you and me to sit down and talk this through, OK?”

Steve is good at explaining things in a way that makes sense. It seems like nothing makes sense lately. Twisting the material of his pyjamas, Matt nods.

***

“I hate him,” Matt says after the doctor leaves the next morning. His hands grip Bucky’s metal arm tight. “I hate him. I hate him.”

“That’s a shame.” Fiona sits on a chair next to Claire, leaving the couch for Matt, Bucky, and Ned. The thought of a stranger in the communal lounge is terrible, so they’d come down to the therapy floor instead. “Because I think he liked you.”

Guilt twinges in his stomach. The man hadn’t done anything really bad, had he? But he’s a stranger, and he knew about what happened to him that night. He’d talked about eating disorders being common among those who’ve been sexually abused. It helps a little to know he’s not going through this alone, but he doesn’t want this stranger talking about what happened to him.

“Matt?” Claire asks. “Did you understand what he said?”

Not really. It’s difficult to concentrate lately, especially when he’s feeling emotional. Leaning into Bucky, he shakes his head.

“It’s very important that we increase your body weight.” Something almost desperate in Claire’s voice. “The effect this is having on your body isn’t good, but it’s also having an effect on your mind. Antidepressants don’t work well on people with low body weight. For you to start feeling better we need to get more calories into you.”

What she’s asking is impossible. “I’ll throw up.”

“That’s fine,” Claire says. “At least something would be getting in you.That’s better than what you’re doing now.”

Bucky places a gentle hand on his arm. “Think you can try pal?”

He’s already trying. He’s already trying.

***

“I’m bad because I can’t eat,” Matt tells Jessica that afternoon when she steps off the elevator onto the communal lounge. None of the others agreed with the reasons why he’s a terrible person, not even Tony, but Jessica isn’t like them. Maybe she’ll tell the truth. “I’m bad because I’m weak, and I can’t do anything, and everyone has to spend so much time keeping me safe, and I worry people, and I don’t know how to act right, and I’m not useful.”

Karen moves from Jessica’s side to take his hands in hers. Jessica stays silent for a beat before sighing. “Barnes, tell Stark’s goons to give me my whiskey back. I’m going to need it.”

***

They talk for a long time in the meeting room where he used to speak to Olivia, just him and Jessica. She’d insisted. The words don’t come out right, but Jarvis helps translate signs and PECS cards. She might not be good at understanding him the first time he tries to explain something, but she is good at asking questions that seem to eventually help her understand some of what is wrong.

“You’re not sticking a tube down his throat,” she says after she helps him find a kitchen chair none of the others are sitting in. Everyone is here today except Bruce and Pepper. Something about Bruce presenting the results of his cancer trials? He doesn’t really remember. Claire left a while ago. He’s not sure when exactly. Foggy’s here too. His doctors say they have him on a low dose of antibiotics anyway, and Matt’s infection shouldn’t cause a problem. “We’re willing to talk alternatives, but that’s not going to happen.”

“Matt?” Bucky asks. “You feel that strongly about it pal?”

Is he allowed to feel strongly about this? Is not wanting to try the tube another thing he’s getting wrong? What if this isn’t the right choice? He shrugs helplessly.

“He feels that strongly about it.” Scraping sound of Jessica pulling a chair next to him and sitting on it. Sounds like she’s sitting on it backwards, sleeves brushing against the leather back.

“I don’t know.” Unsure tone in Foggy’s voice. “His doctor said the ng tube might be our best bet. Getting a g-tube sounds a lot riskier.”

“He’d need to be knocked out for the ng tube anyway,” Steve says, sitting on the other side of the table next to Foggy. “There’s already some risk in that.”

“Given your night activities, the ng tube is bound to get caught on something and move out of place,” Sam says. “We can’t sedate you every time we need to reinsert it.”

Sound of Nat crossing her arms on the table. “I’m not sure he’s capable of desensitising himself to this trigger. Not in time.And he could be right that the tube is too uncomfortable even after it’s inserted.”

“Maybe you could try it one time?” Clint asks from beside Nat. “I mean, sure the tube sucks when it’s put in, but then it sucks a hell of a lot less. It might not be as bad as you think?”

“Or you could try eating?” Creak of chair as Tony leans back, balancing it on two legs. “That’s got to be better than getting a hole in your stomach.”

That’s what’s going to happen. No matter how much he tries to communicate. This is going to end in them forcing him to eat, or forcing a tube down his throat. There’s no point even trying.

Alarm in Nat’s voice. “Thor-”

The ceramic digs into his palm as he throws it across the room. Strong arms close around his as he grabs another plate. He slams it down on the table instead, so it splinters under his hands.

“Matt sweetheart.” Ned’s fingers close around his. “Open your hands son.”

Pain in his palms as he squeezes the pieces. It’s grounding. It makes all the chaos in his head easier to cope with. Large hands hold him away from the table. A faintly familiar heartbeat. One moment he’s standing, and the next he’s on the floor, but that’s OK. The sharp pain gives him something to focus on. If he focuses on it hard enough, the rest of the world will fall away.

Maybe the fear will fall away with it.

Fingers pry at his hands. Another hand cups his cheek. Ned. Palms with Nat’s heartbeat squeeze his shoulders. “No…” her voice says.

It’s a lot. Too much for him to stay in the numb haze. Of course. This is another thing he can’t have.

Wrenching his hands out of their grip, he hits his legs, once, twice. He doesn’t want to eat. He can’t eat. He doesn’t want anything in his mouth or throat. Why don’t they understand that?

Nat’s hands grip his shoulders again. “Matt. Matt, listen.”

He won’t. He can’t. Pulling against the arms holding him. Thor? He tries to go somewhere. He’s not sure where, only that he doesn’t want to be here as they plan putting the tube down his throat.

Nat grips him tighter, pushing him back down. “No ng tube. OK? There’s going to be no ng tube.”

Matt freezes. It takes a long time for his brain to start working again. “Why?”

“Matty.” Bucky’s hand rests on his back at the same time Thor’s hands leave his arms. “What do you think we’ve been doing these last few days? We’re talking through our options here. If you really hate the ng tube, we’ll figure out another way to get you well.”

“But Claire wants the ng tube,” Matt blurts out. “And so does the strange doctor. And Foggy. And everyone.”

“And you don’t,” Jessica’s voice says. “It’s your body. You should be the one deciding what’s going to happen to it.”

“Show us your hand buddy.” Foggy. “Let dad see it, OK?”

Numbly, he opens his hand. Clink sound of ceramic hitting the floor. “If I refuse, you can force me to have the tube?”

“Pal.” Strained sound in Bucky’s voice.

Nat’s grip lessens on his shoulders. “This isn’t about forcing you Matt. This was never about forcing you. This is about finding a way to help you gain weight since eating isn’t working.”

“That’s why we’ve been discussing your options,” Sam’s voice says from the other side of the table. “To help you make an informed decision about all this.”

It doesn’t make sense. “The doctor said I needed the ng tube.”

“He said it was likely you’d need enteral feeding to help you gain weight,” Foggy says quietly. “He talked about ng tubes, but he also talked through other options. Don’t you remember?”

He remembers the doctor talking about sexual abuse and eating disorders. He remembers questions being asked and refusing to answer. A long talk about ng tubes. Maybe a mention of g tubes too?

Sam breaks the silence. “Sometimes when we worry about something, we develop a mental filter, like your cognitive distortions. We only notice that thing we’re worried about, and ignore everything that tells us it’s not going to happen. Matt, are you worried we were going to force you to have the ng tube?”

Isn’t that what’s going to happen? “Claire said so?”

“Claire said those things to make you realise how serious this was getting.” Gentle fingers on his as Bucky takes his hand from Ned. “She needed you to know what might happen before we got there. I’m not gonna lie to you pal. If it comes down to a choice between you dying and feeding you when you don’t wanna be fed, we’re gonna feed you. But that’s not what we want. That’s not what I want. Your choices, they’re fucking important. We’re not gonna take them away lightly.”

“I won’t let them take your choices away,” Jessica says firmly somewhere to his left.

Confusion buzzes in his head, made worse by the throbbing in his hand and infected ear. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s OK,” Steve says “We’ll help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggers =
> 
> Usual strong emotions and warped world view that is Matt's pov. Low self esteem. Some flashbacks to the attack, and a flashback and mentions of emotional abuse of a child. Grief. Issues with abandonment. Eating disorders. Sensory issues. Mentions and discussions of oral rape and all the issues that can come with that. Psychological manipulation during rape and discussions of that. Many discussions of types of enteral feeding (e.g. tube feedings). Communication issues. Self harm. Some restraint. Ear infection.
> 
> As always let me know if you think I should add something to this list.


	62. Chapter 62

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoilery trigger warnings.

“No ng tube,” Matt tells Pepper and Bruce as soon as they step off the elevator. “The doctor talked to Foggy and said no ng tube.”

“Just smile and agree,” Tony says, approaching the pair with sloshing liquid in his hands. “Puppy’s in a weird mood. I think the fever is cooking his brain.”

“Not even under sedation?” Plastic against skin as Bruce takes the herbal smelling liquid from Tony.

“Turns out he was more against that than he was letting on,” Foggy says from the couch. He sounds tired.

“No ng tube,” Matt presses. There isn’t going to be an ng tube, is there?

Sound of Pepper taking her plastic container from Tony. “No ng tube.”

Matt smiles. It stretches too tight on his face. “Tony, no ng tube.”

“Not a one,” Tony agrees.

“Fog?” His hands grip his hoodie, twisting. Lucky yawns by his side, following him close. “No ng tube?”

“No ng tube buddy.” Why does Foggy sound so tired? “Come lie down, OK? You’re making me dizzy with all that pacing.”

“Thor?” His stomach whizzes around and around inside him. Not as bad as when he thought they’d force him to have the tube, but almost. “There’s going to be no ng tube?”

“I see none of the tube you speak of in your future my young friend,” Thor says, voice almost as soft as Steve’s gets when Matt’s having a bad moment.

“Matty,” Foggy says again from the couch. “Come here.”

The couch almost trips him up before he finds his way around it. Blood rushes through his head as he sits heavily on the couch cushions. It’s that lightheadedness along with a pinched feeling in his stomach that makes curling up against Foggy seem like a great idea. His words slide together until he’s sure he’s babbling. Something about Foggy. Something about Toothless. Something about ng tubes. It seems important to get all the words out, even if they barely make sense to himself.

There’s clattering in the background of Bruce and Pepper helping themselves to leftovers from supper. Jessica, Karen, and Ned stayed a long time, so there’s not as many leftovers as they’d planned there to be. Hopefully there’s enough.

“What’s gotten you so anxious buddy?” Foggy asks when Matt lapses into silence.

It’s hard to explain. His insides itch with tension. It feels like he’s been tense forever, only momentarily relieved by stories, hugs, biting, or pacing. “When Hiccup was in danger, Toothless came to save him. And when Toothless was captured, Hiccup found him. Do you think, maybe…” The words trail off. This is something that makes sense sometimes, but doesn’t at others. Like the way he sometimes worries about what happened to Ducky when she was with Old Spice.

“Matt.” Foggy’s arm comes around him. “Keep talking. I promise I’m listening.”

He needs to talk to them. Communicate. Why is that always so much harder than it sounds? “If I’m scared…” This is too much. This is asking too much. “Will someone come get me?”

“Always.” Promise in Foggy’s heart.

“If we don’t know where you are, we’ll need to find you first.” Pepper’s footsteps walk over to the couch, smell of tea in her hands. “Tony wants to talk about tracking options about that when you’re ready. You’re our friend, and if you’re scared and you need someone, we’ll make sure someone will come.”

With his muddled head, her heart is too far away to be certain if it’s telling the truth. It feels like he’s asking for the world. Even his Dad was too busy earning money for them to eat, for him to be around for Matt every time he might’ve needed him. But he wants them to be there. He doesn’t want to be scared again, surrounded by people who hurt him. “I know you’re busy. I know you all have jobs. You’re out there saving the world, and I’m just me. I’m not important.”

Foggy huffs in his ear. “Labelling. Come on Matty, you know that one. You’re important to me.”

He’s important to Foggy, Mom, Ned, Bucky, Steve, Sam, and Nat. They’ve all said so when he’s said he thinks he’s worthless or not important. That must mean he has some worth, right? Even if he’s not sure why.

“When Wright took you, everyone was searching,” Tony says, sounding more serious than he usually does. “If the suit could take it, I’d have had everyone in this tower hitching a ride on my back to bring you back home. You’re important. Why would I have chosen you to be part of this family if you weren’t?”

***

Matt presses his heated palms against the cool of Bucky’s metal arm.

“OK.” Sound of Bucky turning the page of the book. “So basically your body is like a machine. Needs fuel and regular maintenance to make it work.”

The leather couch is losing the pleasant chill it had before they sat down. “Ned says your body is like a car.”

“Well Ned is a smart guy.” Flip of a page. “This is kind of a visual book, so I’m gonna describe some of the drawings to you, OK?”

Matt nods. This is a special book. It used to be Bucky’s. “Is it - is it written for children?”

“I think so?” Shuffling of Bucky moving the book. Looking at it? “But it’s jam packed full of information. I mean, I guess you could find this stuff in a book with a higher recommended age range, but it’d be buried under a whole load of words you don’t need, and it’d be harder to understand. This is easier.”

Matt shifts self consciously. “Did you get any other books like it?”

“Sure. You know that tactile book of emotions Steve got you?”

Matt nods. It has a short piece written about each emotion, then a drawing that’s supposed to represent what each emotion feels like. Anger is a raised lines drawing of jagged spikes.

“That one I got. Probably another few books on emotions too. Didn’t have much in my head when I came here. So I had to learn a lot of things from scratch. How to take care of myself. How to make my own decisions. How to learn I belonged to me, like you’re doing. How to cope with the bad memories.”

A lot. Matt wishes he knew Bucky back then so he could help him through it. “Is a memory bad if nothing bad happened?”

“If it made you feel bad, then yeah.” Hesitation in Bucky’s voice. “You want to tell me what memory you’re thinking of?”

“I have bad dreams sometimes.” Matt traces the rougher texture of Bucky’s metal fingertips. Made to grip better than the smooth metal elsewhere. “About things that aren’t bad.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks. “What like?”

“Times my Dad was sad. Or trying to get my Dad to let me play when I was supposed to study. Waiting for him to come home and the neighbours are shouting. Getting anxious before a test result comes out. When Dad let the devil out. Or one time when I was a kid, someone tried to break the door down while I was home alone. They couldn’t break in, but I still have nightmares about it sometimes.”

Bucky makes a considering noise. “Stranger trying to break down your door sounds pretty scary. I’d be scared.”

Matt pauses fiddling with Bucky’s metal fingers. “Really?”

“Hell yeah.” Sound of Bucky’s hair against the leather couch as he nods. “I’d be scared if that shit happened as an adult, let alone as a kid. You tell your Dad about that?”

“Yeah.” He remembers how his Dad turned right around and left for the hardware store, anger in his footsteps. How Matt hid in his room until he got back, then pretended he hadn’t been hiding at all. “He got better locks for the door.”

Note of something hesitant in Bucky’s voice. “You tell him you had nightmares about it?”

Matt shakes his head. He and his Dad talked about all kinds of things, but not nightmares.

“You tell him about any of your nightmares?”

“I think I made noises sometimes, because when I was really young he’d be there when I woke up. He’d tell me they weren’t real, and sit on my bed until I calmed down. But we didn’t talk about them.”

“You.” Bucky takes a deep breath. “You ever talk about feelings with your dad? Like when something scared or worried you?”

Another shake. “That’s not the kind of thing we ever talked about.”

“You ever tell him you were angry?”

Another shake, more violent this time. Talking about things that made him frustrated was fine as long as they were large problems like inequality in society. Not anything directly related to his life. Not anything he might be tempted to solve with violence. “He said I was too smart to be angry. Not like him. There was this boy who used to bully kids like me. He’d gang up on them. Beat them up. Call them names. Pull at their clothes and do things that’d be called sexual assault if he wasn’t in elementary school. One time he shoved this girl in front of a car while we were waiting for a bus. She didn’t get hurt, but he scared a lot of the kids and none of the adults did anything. Some of the kids started saying they wished he’d be hit by a car and die. And I was really angry about the girl, so I said it in front of my Dad. He didn’t get angry at me much, but he got angry then.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks. “What’d he do?”

“Yelled at me. Told me never to speak like that again. Walked out of the apartment. I think he got in a fight.” Matt drops Bucky’s arm to pick up Tuna. The cat had been sniffing his leg. “I know what Foggy thinks, but that’s all that happened. My Dad never hurt me.”

“Never?” Bucky asks.

Matt shakes his head, stroking his fingers through Tuna’s soft fur.

“My dad hit me and Steve a couple times. Only a swat on our backsides when we did something that could’ve hurt us. And my God, the teachers at our school. They’d hardly ever do Stevie ‘cause he was so sickly. But me, I had more than one walloping.”

Matt blinks. Swallows. “The nuns at the orphanage. They weren’t supposed to hit us. But sometimes when we were bad, and they could get away with it, some of them would.”

“Yeah?”

Matt nods. “Just like a swat. Mostly the older nuns. Mostly with an object like a ruler.”

“Your dad ever give you a swat?”

Tuna snuffles happily at his hand. Licks at it with her sandpaper tongue. “Twice. One time I was being bullied, and I faked sick to get out of going to school. He found out. So he gave me a swat on my face. It wasn’t that hard. I only fell down because I was so little.”

Bucky’s heart speeds up, but his voice stays even. “What about the other time?”

“The bullies kept hurting me. My Dad - he saw the bruises. He helped me clean up the cuts. So I figured that when I finally managed to hit them hard enough to make them stop, he’d be proud.” Shifting of the leather couch as Lucky climbs onto it. “He wasn’t proud.”

“Hit you across the face again?”

“Yeah, but a slap. Not a punch. I even kept my feet. He said he didn’t want me fighting again ever.”

Long pause of Bucky’s slightly too fast heartbeat before he speaks again. “Not even to protect yourself?”

Matt shakes his head. His Dad said he didn’t want him using his fists. Not even to keep himself safe.

“How’d you reconcile that with the Daredevil thing?”

A shrug. “He didn’t like it when I used my fists to protect myself. But sometimes he’d use his fists to help other people. And he didn’t want me to be like him, but he did say that helping people was good. So maybe being Daredevil is different. Maybe it’s OK if I’m protecting other people. Maybe it’s just me who’s not worth protecting.”

***

The next day. Is it only the next day? The heat burns him alive. There’s no comfortable position. He sprawls on the couch, chasing every inch of cool leather and pressing his skin to it until it disappears.

Sound of water. Dripping. For a moment his mind thinks Fisk is here, but no, that’s wrong. This is here, and here is different. Here has the purring of Tuna, curled up on his stomach. The added heat makes him want to move her, but the soft purr and gentle heartbeat are too comforting to get rid of.

Cool on his forehead. He flinches away. A heartbeat rests on his head. Natasha. “It’s only me. I’m going to take care of you, OK?”

Soft placed on one of his hands. Familiar heartbeat that thrums through it, louder than it should be. Foggy. Toothless. His fingers grip the soft tight. Part of him knows it’s not really Foggy, but the sound of a relaxed Foggy’s heartbeat is like balm to his disorganised mind.

Cool wet soothes his forehead and neck. Natasha’s voice tells him he’s OK. That his fever will go down soon.

“You know,” says another voice. Male. Cookies and cinnamon. Sam. “Taking care of him when he seems young and confused isn’t going to fix what happened to you when you were young and confused.”

The cool cloth pauses on his neck before disappearing. “I know.”

“All I’m saying is I think some of this is stirring things up for you, and I want you to know that I’m always here to talk if you want to. I’ll bring the tea, you bring the conversation?”

Oddly fragile sounding smile in Natasha’s voice. “I’ll bring the tea. Your tea tastes like a sugar factory threw up in it.”

***

Anna’s hand rests over his. “Stop playing with that honey. The bandages need to stay on.”

Silk sheets beneath him. His bed. Sore in his throat, but his ear doesn’t feel as bad. Strange feeling, like she’s said that before and he can’t quite remember when. There’s a lot that he can’t quite remember. The world is hazy.

Ned sits close on his other side. “Are those bandages on tight enough?”

“I guess we’ll see once the drugs wear off.” Anna smooths his too long hair back from his face. “Right sweetheart?”

Matt swallows, still trying to force his head to figure out what happened. His last clear memory is signing something before the fever became really bad. “Stomach feels weird?”

“Does it hurt son?” Papery sound. Ned’s holding a book? “Do you need more pain meds?”

A shake of his head. It hurts, but this type of pain he can handle. “Feels tight?”

Anna’s hand pauses in his hair. “That’s because you’re full honey.”

Oh.

“Clint wasn’t too sure what part of this you were up to,” Ned says. “But Steve said you’ve read it enough times that he doesn’t think you’ll mind which part I start with. Would you like me to read some of The Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse?”

Working his way out of the nest of pillows, Matt leans toward the man’s body heat. Pain stabs in his stomach. Right now a story sounds good. “Please.”

***

Matt really loves his g-tube.

“This is the mickey button,” he says proudly. “The feeding tube goes in there, and the food goes straight in my stomach. I don’t need to eat anything. I could just eat chocolate and Claire couldn’t tell me off.”

“You’re not just eating chocolate,” Sam calls out from the kitchen area.

“I really like the Toothless cover.” Palms against wood as Karen leans over the coffee table to get a closer look.

“It’s for leaks.” Tony ordered him so many of them, and Mom patiently described each one. “I have three of Toothless, and one each of Tony, Steve, Clint, Nat, Sam, Hulk, and Thor. They don’t have any of Jarvis, Pepper, or Bruce. They should. Candy said the covers make it look cool.”

“If I say it looks cool.” Heavy sound of Jessica sitting on the coffee table next to Karen. “Will you finally pull your shirt down and stop showing us every five minutes?”

***

Sleeping alone is a no go for now. It always leads to worse nightmares and more sleepwalking. Fiona says he needs to pick his battles. They’re still working toward his goal of not being scared so much.

“This is a pretty steep goal,” Fiona says once they finally decide what not being scared so much means. “It’s going to take a long time to get there. Months. Perhaps even years. How are you going to keep yourself motivated in the meantime?”

It’s been three days since his g-tube was put in. He’s moved on from testing the tube with water and receiving calories through an IV, to having small meals of formula. He’s still not at the amount of calories Claire says an average man of his height and activity level should be having, but he’s getting there. It’s easier to think. “Break it down. Celebrate small goals.”

“That’s good.” Fiona sounds proud. “Do you know what you want your first steps to be?”

To him, not being so scared so much means walking outside the tower on his own regularly without being scared. He’s not sure how to get from here to there.

“Let’s look at why this is a problem for you. Why are you afraid to go outside the tower on your own?”

Thinking about it, it seems irrational. After Foggy was shot, he left the others to go out on his own. He wasn’t afraid then. He was too caught up in worry about Foggy to be afraid. So why can’t he do that now, when he could do it then? Playing with the soft carpet in the sand-tray room, he tries to explain that to Fiona.

“People can do some things some time, and not be able to do them at others,” Fiona explains. “It’s often only after the trauma that our minds allow ourselves to react. In the moment, we’re too caught up in acting to react. I’ve noticed you tend to have delayed reactions to extreme trauma. I’ve seen it in child soldiers. It does no good to break down on the battlefield, and for some, every day was a battlefield of one kind or another. Many didn’t start processing and reacting to what they went through until long after they entered the safe space of the centre. I think somewhere along the way you’ve learnt to keep going when others would stop and break down. This is both a good and a bad thing. Can you guess why?”

Lucky lies a short distance away, snoring softly. Focusing on the dog makes it easier to think. “It’s good because I can keep going. I don’t know why it would be bad?”

“It’s an impressive coping technique,” Fiona says. “And it’s also a large contributer to suicides in men. One of the easiest ways to keep going in adversity is to ignore your emotions. But by doing that you ignore all the warning signals that tell you that you aren’t doing well. The stress builds and builds until you reach your breaking point, because everyone has one of them. The soldier comes home from war, muddles through, says he’s doing fine to anyone who asks. Then one day he kills his family and himself. Keeping things locked inside can lead to big reactions when things finally become too much.”

That’s part of what all this is about. It’s not just the rape. It’s everything else he’s kept locked up. His Dad dying. Every friend he lost. And maybe Stick? Stick helped him, but maybe not everything he did was good. “I’m afraid to leave because people are going to want to hurt me.”

Sound of Fiona writing something down on her notepad. “OK. That’s something we’ll need to tackle if you are going to achieve your goal. We need to help you believe that the amount of people who want to hurt you is much lower than your instincts tell you. And we’ll need to figure out tactics to deal with the few who might want to harass you. What else worries you about leaving the tower on your own?”

Matt hunches his shoulders. “Maybe I’ll do something stupid and they’ll stare at me.”

“You’re very self conscious around people you don’t know well,” Fiona says. “That’s natural for someone with your history, and I think the fact that you’re so people orientated makes it even worse for you. You care about people. Unfortunately that also means you care about what people think about you. We’ll need to work on mind-reading. I know that cognitive distortion still trips you up. We’ll need to work on raising your self esteem. Helping you form a positive self image so you aren’t so affected by things you might overhear people say about you.”

His last worry is more practical. “I rely a lot on memory to navigate. I don’t know all the places around the tower very well. Super senses work, but they don’t give me a good picture when I’m too anxious or dissociated to focus. Lately, they don’t seem to work well at all.”

“Sam said you memorised the jogging routes very fast when you went with them.” Pause in Fiona’s scribbling. “Lowering your anxiety levels is one of our top priorities, but would it also help if someone introduced you to routes before you use them on your own?”

Matt nods. That was useful even when his head was together.

“Then that’s decided,” Fiona says, like he’s asking for something simple. “Now let’s talk about first steps.”

***

The worst times are when people leave.

“Two steps to your left pup.” Tony nudges him in that direction before there’s cloth against metal of him searching in a locker. “Banner, got your spare pants.”

“I’ve got the first aid kit.”

“Pfft. We’ve already got at least five on the jet.”

“You can never have too many first aid kits.”

“Listen to the doctor Tony. He knows what he’s talking about.” Sam’s footsteps pass by where Matt is trying to stay out of everyone’s way in the locker room. “You OK Matt? How’s your stomach feeling?”

It hurts. The tube will hurt for a while. And sometimes his stomach cramps around the food they pump in it. Not anything bad though. “I think it’s fine.”

“Yeah? How’s that ear?”

“Aches? But Bucky says my temperature is down.” The ear infection got pretty bad at one point. Claire says this kind of thing might keep happening. Getting sick, and it getting worse. She said with his immune system as low as it must be right now, she’s surprised he hadn’t been sick sooner.

“Sorry Matty.” Clint’s footsteps barrel towards him. “Need to get to that box down there.”

Trying to make himself smaller, Matt shuffles further to his left. It’s not big enough here in the locker room with everyone grabbing their stuff, but he can’t make himself leave. This is another out of the country mission, and this time Bucky is going with them. Who knows when they’ll come back.

Maybe one of them will get hurt again.

“Matt,” Steve calls over from where he’s helping Bucky with heavy sounding uniform. “Could you take Thor’s cloak to him? He went to carry some equipment to the jet and forgot it. It’s in the locker behind you.”

It helps to have something to do, and it’s not often he’s allowed outside of certain zones in the tower, even supervised. He hadn’t been to the roof since the night he sleepwalked up there. Carefully he gathers the cloak, surprised at its velvety softness. He carries it high so Lucky won’t be tempted to mouth on it like he does to Bruce’s dressing gown sometimes.

“What are you feeling Matt?” Nat asks, appearing from nowhere. Snap of her fixing a gun to her waist.

Matt doesn’t miss the way there’s no sound of her arm moving after the motion. Keeping her hand hovering near the weapon. In case he tries to grab it? Sensible. Right now he has no plans to kill himself, but that doesn’t seem to be the way things work with him. Fiona’s pointed out that he rarely makes detailed plans. He gets caught up in emotions and acts impulsively. “Only a one or a two.”

Pause. He’s supposed to try labelling his emotions as well as using the scale. Only this emotion is like the high pitched anxious feeling he gets sometimes when Foggy leaves the room. He doesn’t feel like explaining that now.

“OK,” she says after a moment. “You’re good. No detours.”

Feeling like he’s passed some test, he makes his way to the elevator, Lucky padding behind him.

***

“Thor is cool,” he tells Karen when she visits that evening. Movie night. Just her and him. Or time for Foggy to spend time with Marci while Pepper makes important phone calls so Clint and Tony ‘don’t get themselves arrested again.’

Buttery smell of popcorn as Karen sits next to him on the large couch. “I knew you’d like him if you gave him a chance. What was it that won you over?”

Karen is probably the only person who’ll appreciate the significance of this. Leaning close, he whispers in her ear. “He’s met a dragon.”

Silence as Karen freezes. “Oh my God!”

A grin spreads across his face. He knew she’d understand.

“A real dragon?” Sound of her shifting the popcorn bowl before she grips his shoulders. “A really real dragon?”

Matt nods. “He said it was a long time ago, but it was on earth.”

Karen lets go of his shoulders. “What kind of dragon? Mushu from Mulan? Toothless? Smaug?”

“I don’t know. I asked if it was like Toothless, and he said he hadn’t watched that movie.”

Karen makes a long considering noise. “I’m not sure if he can be cool if he hasn’t watched How to Train Your Dragon.”

She has a point.

“We should invite him to our next movie night,” she says. “First we’ll show him the movie. Then we’ll start him on the books.”

That sounds like a good plan.

***

Sunday is family day.

That’s what Foggy calls it. ‘Family day.’ A day for Ned and Mom to spend time with Candy, Matt, or Foggy. Today is a day for all of them together.

‘Family day.’ The words feel like precious gems. He wants to whisper them into his palms and hold them close. It makes his chest feel warm, and his insides jittery and anxious. He distracts himself by brushing Lucky’s fur while Candy and Foggy splash themselves in the pool. Tuna meows, tapping at his hand. She wants brushing too. Lucky tolerates brushing with heavy sighs, but Tuna would be brushed every second of every day if she could.

“Such a sweetheart.” Mom’s talking about her friend Frank again. They meet every week to go to a poetry reading “Always polite. Although I could tell he didn’t like that girl we met. A pretty young thing. Well groomed. What was her name? Something unusual. Electra. That’s it.”

The sound of turning pages stops as Ned pauses on the hammock nearest Matt. “Electra. Electra Natchios?”

“No, it couldn’t be.” Sound of Mom shaking her head. “This girl was clearly involved in something shady. Her first name was all Jessica could get out of her, and you know how wonderful she is at her job. We only met her for a few minutes when we found that hole those strangely dressed people drilled into the ground. You come across the most eccentric people in New York, don’t you think? Anyway, she’d clearly been trained to fight for a great many years. She helped us take down the men, and disappeared shortly after we said we were going to involve the FBI. That doesn’t sound like Electra Natchios, does it Matt?”

It sounds exactly like Electra. Tuna takes advantage of his shock to wrestle his hand down and drag her body along Lucky’s brush, purring loudly.

Water drips as Foggy walks up the steps from the pool. His heart beats fast. “Hey, what happened?”

Electra was here in New York. Involved in something that couldn’t be all bad if she helped Mom. But… “Did she mention me?”

Scrape of Mom’s bare feet against tiled floor as she steps out of her hammock. Her voice is hushed. “No honey. She didn’t mention you, but we did only meet her for a few minutes. Maybe she didn’t know who we were. I’ve never met her face to face.”

Of course Electra didn’t mention him. It’s not like he’d be any use to her now. She hates him. She probably thinks he’s disgusting as well as weak.

***

“Why do you do this buddy?” Foggy asks, and it sounds like he’s asking some higher power instead of Matt himself. “Why do you do this when it makes you feel worse?”

Matt sits in a corner of the Nerf gun room, cut off from Foggy and the others by tall wooden obstacles. It’s the closest thing he could find. They can’t get to him. He can’t get to them. He deserves this.

Lucky whines from the other side of the barrier. Scrape scrape of him scratching the wood.

“I can pull these away,” Ned offers, worry in his voice.

“If he starts hurting himself we’ll need to do that.” Skin against skin as Foggy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Until then we need to try and persuade him to come out. To try something else. This thing he does: hiding behind solid objects. It means he’s feeling more unstable. Matty, I know you know that this doesn’t help you calm down. Let’s choose something else from your list, OK?”

Deep pressure. Lucky. Crafts. Cooking. Stories. Soft blankets. Couch. They’re all nice things. He doesn’t deserve nice things.

“Matt. Honey.” Wet upset in Mom’s voice. “You’re worrying me. Please come out.”

Clambering sound. Someone climbing on one of the ramps.

Foggy’s heart spikes with surprise. “Matt, Candy is coming to ask if you’d mind if she sits with you. If you want her to go away, just tell her to back off.” His voice lowers. “I know this is painful to watch, but you need to give him an out. We need to try and remember to give him some control, even if he doesn’t always want it.”

Candy’s warmth comes from above him, but Matt’s too tired to shrink away. “Hey Matt, can I come down there?”

It takes energy to care. Worrying about Electra sapped up what little he had. He shrugs.

Candy slips into the limited space beside him. She’s shorter than Karen, but not as slight. Her skin is wet as it presses against his. Rough rasp of the towel she must’ve tied around her waist. “Dude, what are you doing in here?”

It hurts to find the words. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Candy tenses, her side pressed against his. “You want me to leave?”

No. Never. But… “This is bad.”

Candy’s elbow nudges his arm as she winds her arms around her legs. “You’re not making sense. Wanna try again?”

He leans his head against his knees. He rarely seems to make sense when he’s this worked up. “You’re good, and I’m not.”

Shifting of wood from the enclosed space, like Foggy suddenly needs to support himself on one of the ramps. “Matt. Matty. You don’t need to punish yourself. That psycho bitch isn’t worth it.”

Cool of Candy’s palm against his flushed forehead. A rare tender gesture. “Are you punishing yourself?”

He shudders. His body hasn’t stopped quivering since he made himself this cage. But he deserves it. He was a different person when he met Electra. There’s no way she’d tolerate the person he is now. She’d hate him. That’s why she didn’t try to contact him about whatever it is she’s doing. She knows he’s too weak. She’d sneer at him if they met again, just like Stick did.

_Weak. Stupid. Fucking pansy. Why should I waste my time with you?_

“I’m going to kick her ass,” Candy declares.

The words knock him out of his head. He blinks. Shakes his head. Candy can throw a decent punch, but she’s not in Electra’s league.

“You’re family.” Candy’s heart beats truth. “No one messes with my family, except maybe me. If she made you feel this bad I’m kicking her ass, and nothing you or anyone else says is going to stop me.”

It’s touching in a strange way. Worrying too. And it makes him realise something important. Something he couldn’t see until he stepped back from the emotions and spiralling thoughts. “She’s not making me feel bad. I am.” He’s winding himself up. Thinking he knows what Electra would say about him. Mind reading. He takes a deep breath. Counts. Breathes out. The solid walls around him make it difficult to calm. This isn’t helping. “Think - um - out?”

“Sure.” Wood scraping against floor as she pushes one of the ramps aside.

The air changes as the space becomes less confined. It’s easier to breathe. Pushing himself to his feet, he falters. Static rushes into his brain and for a moment everything blanks out. He comes to leaning against Candy’s side, Ned’s hand on his head. This still happens a lot. Fainting, especially when he stands up.

Straightening up, he flushes, fiddling with his hoodie. It’s difficult to know what to say after these episodes. His body still trembles and his breathing comes too fast. Lucky helps by leaning against his legs.

“Matty.” Foggy’s voice is cautious. “How are you feeling?”

Like his eyes want to cry. Like he wants to hurt himself to keep the stabbing emotion locked inside. Like he doesn’t want to be here. The attention makes the feelings well up, blocking his throat. He signs instead, hands quivering. ‘Sorry.’ Then ‘help.’

Foggy’s heart speeds up, but his voice softens. “Got you Matt. Safety plan. Want to go to the couch?”

Breath hitching, Matt nods. Couch. Soft blankets. Lucky. Safe.

***

Sometimes after a nightmare, the idea of not being close to someone hurts. It turns his insides tight and panicked.

Luckily Mom doesn’t seem to plan to leave him anytime soon. She sits, her hand over his as she teaches him how to cream butter by hand. It should help make the cake light and fluffy. It’s harder than he thought it would be, which is good. He needs something to concentrate on that isn’t slam of a closet door shutting in his face.

Foggy helped earlier by making Candy leave the communal lounge while Matt tried to explain what happened the night Electra left. How he couldn’t be the person she wanted him to be. And maybe he babbled too much about that, because Mom gave him a tight hug and told him that ‘love isn’t conditional honey. If you love someone, you love them. You don’t use the promise of love as a weapon to get another person to do something they don’t want to do.’

Ned agreed, and Foggy said he’d made the right choice.

And none of them left. Not even after he told them about the breaking and entering, and all the other things he did with Electra. Instead Foggy sat with him while he hummed and rocked, hands over his ears. Mom reminded him to hit the cushion and not himself when things became too tense. She named his emotions and helped him talk about how they felt so they didn’t feel so out of control. Ned prepped his feeding equipment and asked Jarvis to start a guided meditation Bruce suggested for his worst times.

Now his stomach is uncomfortable with food. His mind is hazy from fitful sleep. But Mom is here helping him choose two things to make from the list of twenty or thirty he’d wanted to make the others before they come back. She tells him she loves him like it’s a fact.

Sam tells him sometimes that the bad feelings will pass. Fiona reminds him that he needs to work to recognise good feelings and moments, because his mind finds it easier to notice the bad things and forget the good.

The bad feelings will pass, he tells himself. And good moments like this will come again. It’s hard to believe. It’s easier to believe that good moments are temporary blips designed to put him at ease before everything goes wrong. But maybe, if there are more good moments to come, then it’s worth it to stick around and experience them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warnings =
> 
> Strong emotions, Suicidal thoughts, Matt's messed up head, g-tubes and discussion of ng tubes, Matt talks about his childhood, discussion about corporal punishment and an adult hitting a child, Jack had issues himself and wasn't the perfect parent, discussions of a child bully pushing another child into traffic (no one hurt), Matt's terrible self esteem, illness.
> 
> As always if you think something should be added to this list, let me know in the comments.
> 
> Note =
> 
> I've skipped over some of the g-tube recovery here. For those wondering, it's likely he received iv nutrients for 24 hours before they tried the tube with water. Pretend the meds and fever kept him out of it until then. During an illness also isn't the best time for an operation, but they were starting to run out of time, so chose to act quickly after consent. I debated having him bedridden for longer. I've heard of people being immobile and in pain for a week after this op, and I've heard of people running around with moderate painkillers quite happy the day after. 
> 
> Matt is scarily good at working through pain (provided it isn't linked to one of his triggers), so I picture him as the kind of goof who wanders around quite happily a couple days after surgery.


	63. Chapter 63

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoilery trigger warnings. This chapter contains a significant episode of self harm, so be warned.

Anger rolls out of the apartment as soon as Steve opens the door. It makes Matt’s muscles tense and the piles of stuff he and Sam are holding seem nowhere near enough.

“It’s OK if this is too much Matt,” Steve says. He sounds distracted, worried, tired. “You need to look after yourself before you look after anyone else. No one will blame you if your mind isn’t in the right place.”

It’s tempting to ignore the warning, but he stops himself. Tries to take a moment to check in with his emotions like Bruce and the others help him do. The anger makes him tense and scared. He thinks he can handle it. “If I get to a three I’ll stay back. If I get to four I’ll go to the communal lounge or my apartment.”

Tense smile in Sam’s voice. He sounds tired too. “Good plan.”

Walking past Steve, Matt places the tupperware on the table. Toothless and the dinosaurs go beside it along with the puzzle car. Maybe he didn’t plan this right he thinks, still holding the soft blanket. He turns anyway toward the sound of pacing. “Hi Bucky.”

Bucky grunts and carries on pacing.

Matt hesitates. Anger is thick in the air. And he’s not sure he’d grabbed the right things when he’d heard Bucky had a bad time on the mission. Bucky sometimes shows interest in the dinosaurs, but not often. Toothless is soothing, but maybe that’s only for Matt. The puzzle car is neat, but Bucky has never tried to put it together. Does Bucky like soft blankets? They are really nice.

“Bucky.” Steve’s voice is soft. Soothing like after Matt has a panic attack. “Matt came to see how you are.”

Bucky’s feet stop. Rough sound of skin against skin like he’s dragging his hands over his face. Some of the anger leeches from the room. “Hi brat. How are you doing?”

Bucky sounds tired. Maybe the soft blanket will help with that. Matt grabs the tupperware container as well. “We made cake. It has popping candy like me and Bruce were going to do for Tony. It’s chocolate for you, and orange pieces and filling for Steve, and no strawberry because of Pepper, and candy on top for Clint. There’s more downstairs. And we can watch ponies. Talking helps, so you could try that. You can box, but you can’t hit the wall or yourself. Jarvis has meditations in case you want to try them. You won’t like throwing ice, but maybe there’s something else for you to throw. Ripping paper works as well.”

More anger leeches from the room. Rough chuckle as Bucky sits on the couch. “Missed you pal.”

The words give him confidence enough to sit on the L shaped couch next to Bucky. It’s good to have him close, even if Bucky’s temperature is too warm with emotion.

Steve’s and Sam’s muscles are less tense. Relieved. “That’s a lot of advice,” Sam says. “What do you think Bucky should do first to calm down?”

Bucky’s heart is still too fast. So’s his breathing. But he’s not wound up enough that he can’t think or speak clearly like Matt gets sometimes. Drawing his feet onto the couch, he thinks carefully. He’d offer Lucky, but he’s not supposed to confuse the dog by telling him to go help other people when he’s supposed to be focused on Matt. “Take five slow breaths. In for five. Out for five. Then start talking about what’s worrying you. You can borrow the dinosaurs, or my cards, or you can sign.”

“I’ve told Sam and Steve.”

Oh. He forgot that other people don’t have as many problems communicating what’s wrong as he has. Maybe he doesn’t know how to help Bucky.

“But it’ll help to talk about it some more.” Bucky sighs. “I’m just - part of me was starting to get fed up of being left behind. So I went. And Jesus, it was all fucked up to hell. I was only on coms. Baby steps, y’know? But hearing them out there getting hurt… I thought I was ready. I’m not fucking ready to chance being that guy again.”

Soft smile in Steve’s voice. “That’s more eloquent than when you told me. All I got was a whole lot of swearing. Think you gave those three punching bags a good conversation though.”

Scraping of leather as Bucky leans back against the couch. His heart beats slower. “Shut it punk.”

“Jerk.”

Matt picks out the words carefully. “You said that you can decide what you want to do now. Engineering or fighting or anything. You said that if you’re never ready to fight again, that doesn’t make you less of a person because you’ve got people who love you whether you fight or not.”

Hair against leather. Bucky turns his head. “I give some good advice.”

Matt nods. He does. Hesitantly he leans over the other man’s body until he can grip the metal hand. He remembers a conversation long ago when Bucky said people think of him as a weapon. Bucky isn’t a weapon. He’s a person. “Fiona says people change all the time. Experiences change us. You did things before, but that doesn’t mean you’ll do them now. You’re good. You’re safe. You’re my friend.”

Bucky’s voice has wet in it as he says “You give good advice too.”

He’s only repeating the things they taught him. “You should do something calming. That will help recharge you.”

***

Today Ned and Mom come to help with theraplay.

It’s strange to have other people here. Sometimes Fiona sits with them when she shows Foggy a new game they can play, but mostly it’s only him and Foggy. Theraplay is special. Intimate in a way. It feels odd to let them into this private world.

After he’s done stacking the cushions, Foggy grips Matt’s shoulders. “OK buddy, this is what we’re going to do. I’m going to help you climb onto these cushions. Then we’ll count and see how long you can balance up there for.”

That’s easy. He’s bad at a lot of things, but balancing he’s good at. Except, since he lost weight he’s been getting dizzy more often and losing his bearings. Still, this sounds like it could be fun. He steps toward the cushions.

“Wait bud.” Foggy’s hands stay on his shoulders, stopping him from moving. “I’m going to help you.”

“I can do it,” Matt says automatically. Foggy’s still not recovered from his surgery, and Matt should be able to climb on cushions, even as weak as he is now.

“I know you can bud, but I’m still going to help you.”

Right. That’s what these sessions are about. Foggy deciding what they’re going to do and looking after Matt. Foggy giving him so much attention that it’s overwhelming at times. Foggy saying nice things and treating Matt like he’s someone special. Foggy’s explained it before. These sessions are a chance to show Matt how much he cares about him, and how he won’t leave. He might do things that Matt doesn’t think he needs, like putting cream on tiny cuts or making a fuss when Matt bangs against furniture during an activity, but that’s only because he cares.

It’s still foreign for someone to fuss because they care, and not because they need to fill out paperwork every time he gets hurt.

“Before we start, there’s a rule. It’s really important bud. Are you listening?”

Of course. Matt nods, shifting a little under Foggy’s intense attention.

“It’s important that you don’t get hurt.” Foggy’s heart beats truth, and his voice is steady and insistent. “I don’t want you getting hurt. So if you think you might fall, I want you to jump to me, Mom, or dad. We’ll catch you.”

Warmth swells up in his chest, rising to his throat and making it hard to swallow. “You’re still hurt.”

“That’s why I brought Mom and dad to help.” Foggy’s thumbs rub his shoulders and there’s that feeling of intensity again. Like Foggy’s entire attention is honed on him. Like Matt’s someone who deserves this. “We don’t want you getting hurt.”

***

“I can carry something,” Matt offers when there’s sound of Tony picking up a bowl of dip along with his coffee. Nat and Bruce aren’t done making lunch yet, but Tony’s not always good at sticking to schedules. “Your hand is still injured.”

Bruce’s heart-rate spikes. Sounds of him chopping vegetable sticks stop. “Tony?”

Was that a secret? Matt freezes, hoping Tony will still decide to give him a piano lesson before lunch.

Tony laughs. Not mad? “Just my wrist green bean. I’ll let you imagine how I injured it.”

Some kind of non verbal exchange he doesn’t pick up? Whatever it is, Bruce’s temperature rises. Embarrassed?

“You injured it in battle.” Nat doesn’t pause. A steady clunk clunk sound of her tossing fruit into several smoothie makers. “After the suits repulsor malfunctioned and you took that hit.”

“You ruin all my fun.”

“It’s how I get my fun.”

Bruce sighs. “You know you’re supposed to report injuries after a battle. Come here and let me check it out.”

***

“This one,” Matt says quietly the next day, Wednesday the 13th of July.

They’re on the cafeteria floor. In the small corner that houses the spa. It’s the quietest corner of the floor, but there are still people around them. No strangers in the spa except three staff. Hill said she’d checked them out. She’s getting clay smelling stuff put on her face by one of them, and another is putting a mintier version on Pepper. Tony’s nails are getting covered by wet plastic smelling film.

The smells and new place make his hands fiddle over and over again with Lucky’s fluffy ears.

Bucky makes a thoughtful noise before movement as he brings the massage oil bottle to his face. “Cocoa butter. I should’ve guessed.”

Steve’s been encouraging him to spend time playing with food again. Squishing spaghetti, painting with sauces. He doesn’t make Matt eat, but coaxes him to explore everything about the different foods, from their scents to their textures. Without that he wouldn’t be able to take all the scents in the spa.

It’s kind of what Stick did. Helping him tolerate scents and sounds and textures. Yet it’s completely different. With Stick, everything was a test. Failure came with pain, physical or emotional. With Steve there’s no pain, no punishment, no pressure. It’s odd.

“It smells like chocolate,” Matt explains. “You like chocolate.”

Shuffling of fabric as Bucky crouches in front of the armchair Matt’s tucked away into. Clinking as he lifts the tiny bottles on the wooden table nearby. “You know me well pal. What massage oil do you think Tony should go for?”

There are a lot of sample bottles. He’s spent the past half hour exploring them while the others get covered in weird smelling stuff. “He should choose the blueberry one, but he’s going to choose one of the ones under the towel.”

Soft sound of Bucky poking the towel at the back of the table, but thankfully he doesn’t unwind the pile and let the smell out. “These are the ones we don’t like, right?”

Nodding, Matt makes a face.

“So, when we persuade Foggy to try this place out, what oil should he get?”

The questions help. Before they came down here, Steve asked to have a talk with Bucky. And now Bucky keeps him occupied with questions and simple tasks like Steve does. Matt turns his attention to the table. There’s one that smells like strawberry and cream. Foggy would love that. But… “There’s one made from avocado oil.”

“That’s your thing, right? The two of you? Avocados?”

Matt nods. Abogados is what they were going to be before Matt couldn’t anymore.

“How about Karen?” Bucky asks. “Which do you think she should choose?”

***

“I don’t care,” Matt says, shifting on the couch until he’s turned away from Claire. It’s rude, but he doesn’t want to listen to this.

“Good for you.” Quick clack of plastic against wood as Claire lines up yet more containers on the coffee table. “But you’re going to come here and help me out with this anyway.”

Grumbling, Matt kneads the blanket in his hands. He debates hiding under it or raising three fingers.

“Are you being Mr Drama queen today, or is this really that bad?”

Hunching his shoulders, Matt finds a loose thread on the blanket.

Sound of protesting leather above him as Clint leans over the back of the couch. He’s babysitter right now. There’s always someone close by, even if they’re not always in the same room as him anymore. The man pokes his shoulder. “You worried about something?”

He’s always worried about something.

“I’m not going to make you eat it if that’s worrying you.” Cloth against wood as Claire sits on the coffee table. “But I’d like you to get more involved in your feedings. There are other formula options than the one you’re on.”

“You want to have nice tasting burps, right bro?” Light sound. Clint lifting his feet off the floor, balancing all his weight on the back of the couch. “Last week Nat dared me to eat some of Lucky’s food. I tasted that shit for days.”

Matt makes a face, though Clint does have a point. Even when he can’t taste it, he can still smell it. “I don’t like the strawberry ones. It doesn’t smell like strawberry.”

“Done,” Claire says. “Vetoing all artificial strawberry flavors. Although there’s still scope to make our own mixtures with real strawberries. Now that your stomach is coping with more volume we can afford to experiment a little more. I’d still like some of your meals to be weight gain shakes, but there’s no reason you can’t make your own formula for the rest of your calories.”

It’s an itchy uncertain feeling when his views are taken into consideration. There are a lot of meetings about how things are going. There were always meetings like that, and Sam, Fiona and the others ask him questions, but now they also remind him more that he has a say over what happens. They take more time to break down options. And most of the time he pushes those options away because decisions still make his heart race too fast, but sometimes he tries. Putting smoothies through his tube instead of just ensure and the other weight gain shakes sounds like a good idea. Only… “I don’t want to get more involved in my feedings.”

“OK.” Claire doesn’t sound mad. “Why?”

Because feedings are a little like theraplay. Someone looking after him. Soon he’ll start to be bolas fed, but up until now his stomach was unused to large meals enough that the food needed to be pumped at a slower rate into the tube. That meant someone sitting with him while the machine did its thing, because often he’d fall asleep and he still has bad dreams. But he can’t tell Claire that. There is another reason he can tell her. “My emotions aren’t always easy to control. I don’t plan to hurt myself, but I usually don’t plan to hurt myself until the feelings grow so big that I just act. If I pull my mickey tube out I could rip the skin. I don’t want another operation.”

“Gotcha,” Claire says after a pause. “Let’s take things one step at a time. Today you take a sniff of these shakes and tell me the ones you hate the most. Later we’ll talk about whether you’re ready to be involved any more.”

“Later means agggeees,” Clint says before he can protest again. “Like when you’re totally zen and feel like you’re safe to handle the tube. We’ll go at your pace bro. Don’t stress.”

Relief floods through him that Claire doesn’t mean next week. His hands skate over his hoodie, feeling the wrap underneath. The tube doesn’t need to be covered, but when he’s not being fed he keeps it on. It takes time and coordination to undo. When he hurts himself he tends to go for the easy option. This is a way to make sure the tube isn’t an easy option.

Part of minimising self harm is reducing temptation. That’s why all sharp things are locked away until Matt says he’s safe to use them. That’s why Sam teaches him to push away tempting things like dinner plates as soon as he starts to feel himself get worked up. And why he’s supposed get a cushion when he thinks he might hit. Biting isn’t as easy to replace, but he hasn’t done it that often since the operation dragged up the flashbacks about what they did to his mouth.

Slow steps. Pace himself. He can do this. “I liked Tony’s smoothies. They don’t have all the chemicals in them that the weight gain shakes have.”

“I can work with that,” Claire says, sounding thoughtful. “Do you think you could drink any of the smoothies by mouth?”

Matt shakes his head rapidly, reaching out to Lucky to calm himself.

“Just a question bro,” Clint says. “No one’s going to force you.”

“Our concern is getting enough calories inside you.” Claire’s voice turns softer. “Which we’re managing well with the tube. You like the g-tube, right?”

Matt nods. The thought of eating still makes his skin crawl. The tube means he doesn’t need to swallow or taste anything.

“Antidepressants and anti anxiety medications don’t work very well for people with low body weights,” Claire says. It’s something he’s heard before. “Over the next few weeks we’re focusing on increasing your body weight. We hope the medications will start to have more of an effect. We may hit a few hiccups along the way. As you gain weight your brain will start to function better. Concentration and reasoning should increase, but so will intensity of emotions. You may not have noticed, but starvation dulls emotions. It might take some time for you to get used to feeling things at full force again.”

That’s not good. His emotions are already too big to cope with sometimes. Maybe that’s why Sam spends so much time helping him practice what to do when he gets worked up. His heart-rate increases, chest feeling tight. Breathe in for five. Hold. Breathe out for five. Problems may seem scary, but they often have solutions. “Learn self regulation,” he says, echoing the things Fiona said it was important to concentrate on right now. “Notice my emotions more. Learn when I’m starting to get worked up. Use coping techniques before I get to overflow point.”

“See bro,” Clint says from above him. “You’re going to be an expert in no time.”

***

“Tell me what happened that night,” Fiona asks, like she always asks.

He’s spoken about this hundreds of times. Every time it seems to hold less power over him. He barely needs to stroke Lucky as he talks about getting hit with the baseball bat. Falling down and not being able to get up. Early on, the order of events would confuse him. But now he remembers that Baseball Bat told Justin Fletcher to rape him. Then it was Baseball Bat, then Old Spice.

“Fletcher raped my mouth.” This is the thing he keeps coming back to. This is the thing that haunts his nightmares. His mind wants to shy away from it, which is why he’s trying to talk about it. He doesn’t want it to stay in his dreams. “But it wasn’t my fault. He chose to do that, not me. Old Spice held me in place. I couldn’t stop it.”

Fiona sits opposite them. They’re in the sand-tray room as usual, Matt’s chaotic sand-tray beside them. “And as soon as you were free you fought back, even though it meant they hurt you more. You tried everything you could to survive.”

It’s easy to forget that there were times that he fought back. His memory of those times is short and hazy against the memories of being hurt. “Sometimes I didn’t fight back.”

“You tried everything you could to survive,” she repeats. “If you had continued fighting it’s unlikely you would be here now. Dissociation is a survival mechanism. Freeze is a survival mechanism. Fawn is a survival mechanism. They aren’t any better or worse a survival mechanism than fighting back.”

It’s difficult to remember that sometimes. “When Dad fought in the ring, if someone hit him, he got back up. He always got back up. He’d never give up, no matter what happened.”

“Everyone has a breaking point,” Fiona says. “And everyone reacts to stress differently. You told me that sometimes your dad would get sad. Can you tell me about that?”

Matt shifts on the beanbag concentrating on how all the little beans shift below him. His fingers bury themselves in Lucky’s fur. It feels like betrayal to talk about this. “Dad didn’t get sad a lot. Just sometimes. It happened after he beat up that man. The police came and left, and he drank beer and didn’t move from the couch for days.” Panic claws up his throat. He wants to snatch the words back. “My Dad was great. He really was.”

“From what you’ve told me, your father sounds like he was an admirable man.” Shifting as Fiona leans forward on her chair. “But he was also human. He had flaws, just like every other human has. It’s normal for people to react to stress. Would you say his life was difficult, or easy for him?”

Matt twists the material of his sweatpants while Lucky laps his fingers. Would Dad want him talking about this? They never talked about their problems when he was alive. “People - they weren’t always nice to him. I’m not sure why. They used to say things. And most of the time he’d take it, but sometimes he had a temper. Not for - never for himself - and not for me. We’re Murdock's. Murdock's can take a beating. But those people, sometimes they’d take things out on others and he’d - he’d let the devil out, like he did in the ring. He’d always regret it afterwards. He said he didn’t want me acting like him. Like a lunatic. Said I was too smart for that.”

“What did you feel when you saw your dad let the devil out?”

It’s a bad question. His insides quiver at the thought of answering it. But he wants to get better, right? So he should try to cooperate in therapy even when it’s about something that’s not relevant to his problems today. And if he asks her to, she won’t share it. ‘Scared,’ his hands sign. As soon as the sign is formed he wants to snatch it back. It can’t be right. He couldn’t be scared of Dad, though sometimes… His hands form another sign, as bad as the last one. ‘Happy.’

***

It’s the day before his birthday when he places a foot on his hand, then wrenches his pinkie finger until it snaps.

“Matt?” Steve asks from the other side of the closet door. Bruce left it a little ajar when he’d taken out one of the feelings games to play after breakfast. It seemed the best place to go after he ruined everything. “Do you think you could open the door? You’re worrying me.”

Pain makes the panic dull. A minute ago the world was ending. Now everything just seems very far away. Even the close walls of the games closet don’t make him breathe as fast as they would usually do. Shaking, he raises the hand. What did he do?

“Bucky,” Bruce’s voice sounds from the communal lounge, the other side of the hallway. “It’s your call. You’re the one who’s most concerned with his autonomy.”

Steve sounds low to the floor, directly the other side of the closet door. He doesn’t sound hurt, but Matt heard the pained exhale after he threw the frying pan. “We don’t have eyes in the closet, and small spaces with solid walls wind him up.”

Bucky sighs. Not a happy sound. “Try again. Can’t just barge in when he went somewhere to hide.”

“He didn’t go to hide.” Soft sound. Steve putting his hand on the door. “He went in there to punish himself.”

“I know.” Uneven footsteps as Bucky walks into the hallway. “But try again anyway.”

“Matt, I’m not hurt. Not badly hurt. And I know you didn’t mean it. I’m not angry. You can come out.”

He lost control. That’s happened a lot in the past couple of weeks. Ever since he started gaining weight. It was easier when he wasn’t taking in any food.

“How about you let Lucky in?” Steve tries again. “He’s worried too.”

Lucky doesn’t deserve to be in here with someone who loses it like this. Someone who hurts his friends. And this time is - is this time bad? It’s bad that he hurt Steve. He knows that. But is it also bad that he hurt himself? His finger screams.

A pause. Noise like Steve is doing something to his face. Pinching the bridge of his nose? Before clothes shuffle as he straightens up again. “I need your help Matt. I need you to put some burn cream on my arm.”

Matt raises his head. He does? “Bucky,” he mumbles, not sure if they can hear him through the door. “Chemicals.”

“I want you to do it,” Steve says calmly. “Not Bucky or Bruce. Please Matt. I need your help.”

Standing, he keeps his screaming hand close to his side, not sure whether to hide it or not. What did he do? Why did he break a finger? He opens the door with his left hand. “Sorry.”

Bucky and Steve make a different kind of sigh. Relief. “You didn’t mean it,” Steve reminds him. “It can’t be your fault if you didn’t intend to hurt me. But we will need to think of some ways to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Does that sound fair?”

Gasping a little, Matt nods, then shakes his head. “I _hurt_ you.”

“You didn’t mean it,” Bucky repeats Steve’s words. Soothing, probably because Matt’s still quivering. “Now, you gonna come out here and fix Steve up?”

He wants to, but.. No lies. No keeping things to himself without asking for help. He raises his right hand. “I don’t - I don’t know why I did it. I’m sorry.”

“Matty.” Bucky’s hands close over his. Gentle. From the change in his heart-rate he can see something wrong.

“I should’ve said safety plan. I forgot. I’m sorry.” The feelings smash around inside him, rising out of numbness. “Can I still help Steve? Please?”

***

By the time they let him help Steve there’s no sign of anything wrong with the man’s arm. No out of place feeling of warmth. No flinching movements as Matt applies cream to where Steve indicated.

“Careful Matt,” Sam says from the metal chair beside him. He’d arrived on the medical floor shortly after Steve rushed him there, acting like he’d hurt something much worse than a finger. “You need to rest that finger or it won’t heal.”

It’s strapped to the finger beside it to help rest it, but it’s easy to forget not to try using it to pick up stuff or lever himself up. It hurts, but it’s not a pain he can’t stand like how his throat or body feels after bad dreams. Stick would tell him to push through. _‘Stop being such a pussy.’_ And he can do that. This is a type of pain he can push through. Only, they’re telling him not to do that. Smoothing cream over Steve’s forearm, he tries to work it out. “My hand took a long time to heal.”

“That’s right.” Less upset in Steve’s voice than there was before. Once he’d half carried Matt up here, and set him in the machine for Jarvis to scan, a lot of upset entered his voice. Not like Bucky who tends to start with more upset, then calms down. “You kept using it while it was trying to heal, and the wound kept reopening.”

The cut from the dinner plates only stayed closed in the last week. Bruce says it might scar. “I don’t have much nutrients in my system, so my body doesn’t heal as well as it did, even with meditation.” Claire explained that to him. Stick and Sam can’t both be right. He needs to puzzle this out. “And rest is important?”

“Rest is so important buddy,” Foggy says from by the med room door. Upset in his voice. There always is for a long time after Matt hurts himself, but this time he didn’t leave. He came to see Matt.

He covers Steve’s arm in cream carefully, like how Foggy does for him during theraplay. It will be cold and soothing. It’s good to do something to help. It helps calm the panicked feelings that threaten to consume him every time he remembers that he hurt Steve.

Rest is important. He’s not always good at noticing when he’s getting anxious, so scheduling regular rest breaks helps keep him from overloading. That didn’t help this morning because he woke up feeling itchy and stretched out. Cracking the egg outside the saucepan was all it took to send him over the edge. Steve helped him decide that next time he should tell them how he’s feeling sooner. He can still help make breakfast if he wants, but they’ll know to give him a job that doesn’t involve hot pans or knives.

If resting yourself mentally is important to help mental wounds heal, and resting yourself physically is important to help physical wounds heal, then why did Stick do what he did?

***

“He didn’t care about you,” Nat says later, not pausing applying her makeup. “He wanted a soldier. He didn’t care if he hurt you as long as he got what he wanted.”

Burning starts at the back of his eyes. It’s only when he’s sitting on the shag rug, digging the heels of his hands into his eyelids to try and stop the sudden flood, he realises he’d hoped it wasn’t true. He’s not completely stupid. He knows Stick was an asshole, but he’d hoped Stick was an asshole who cared about him a little.

Lucky is there, whining and lapping at his face. Then there’s Pepper’s soft whisper and her hand on his shoulder. “Did you need to tell him like that?”

Nat’s footsteps walk over, louder than they usually are. Warmth as she tugs him into her arms, holding him tightly, resting her head on his. Sometimes she makes herself small while resting against him, like she’s giving him the chance to pretend to be the powerful one. Now she’s definitely the powerful one, holding him together while he breaks apart. “Sorry Matt, but you’re ready. He didn’t want you. He only wanted what he planned to turn you into. I know it hurts, but you need to let him go. He doesn’t deserve this devotion you have for him.”

Feelings choke up his throat along with the tears. Pulling out of the hold, he hides behind his knees while taking the PECS book out of his satchel. Anger grows in his chest. It scares him, because it’s anger for Stick. Is it strange that his first instinct is to defend the man? Stick has a card. ‘Stick’ ‘help’ ‘me.’

“I thought they were helping me too.” Nat strokes his hair, the movement an exact copy of the gentle way Bucky does it. “I loved them, because all children want to love someone, no matter how much they hurt you. He didn’t help you.”

Matt shakes his head, breath coming too fast. Tears scald his cheeks. That’s not true.

“He didn’t help you,” Nat repeats. Her heart beats truth through him. “He acted like he was helping you because he wanted something from you. Those are the lies people like him say. ‘I’m doing this for your own good.’ ‘I’m making you into something better.’ ‘You’d be nothing without the training.’ The truth is you are a person, with or without the training. There were other ways to help you without breaking you.”

She doesn’t know him at all. Pulling away from her, he focuses on stroking Lucky. Bruce taught him how to massage the dog. His hands shake as they try to remember how.

“I’m sorry Lapushka.” Her voice soothes. “I pushed too hard. Let’s find Steve, OK?”

***

His birthday means he doesn’t need to do anything. Someone else will feed Lucky and Tuna if he doesn’t want to. Someone else will help with breakfast instead of him.

So he does nothing. Lies in Steve’s bed and fiddles with the cast on his finger. Lucky curls in close, and he spends some time snuggling into the dog, while keeping Toothless a safe distance. Lucky likes to mouth at the soft plush and Toothless isn’t allowed to be covered in dog slobber. Thoughts try to push themselves in. They sound like Stick’s voice. He tries to re-frame them.

What helps most is taking time to focus on nice things around him. Lucky’s heartbeat. The patterns on Toothless’s wings. When Tuna paws at the covers so she can come under them with him. The attentive way Bucky feeds him through the tube, not insisting that he helps today.

Late morning when it’s Ned’s time to check on him, he feels well enough to sit up. “Is it too late to plan the day?”

The mattress shifts as Ned rests his weight on it. “What did you have in mind son?”

They’ve talked a lot about today. It’s difficult to come up with things he wants to do, so most of the ideas are suggestions the others came up with. Even with the suggestions it’s hard to choose anything. He doesn’t feel like he deserves anything nice after yesterday. But Steve doesn’t seem to agree. He’d suggested Matt sleep in his bed last night. He read him two chapters of The Little Wooden Horse, then some more when Matt first woke up sad. He’d checked the perimeter, just like Bucky does after Matt has a nightmare. He’d brought him juice and praised him when he managed to sip it.

If people treat him so nice, even after he does horrible things, maybe he’s not such a bad person?

“Bucky said he had a surprise for tonight.”

Ned hums softly, acknowledging the words. “Did you want to know what the surprise was?”

Matt hesitates, then shakes his head. He does want to know. Surprises makes his skin itch with tension and his insides quiver. His mind wants to spin around, trying to turn it into something horrible that might happen. What if he doesn’t like the surprise, and it shows on his face? What if that makes Bucky sad? But he’s made it this far without taking up Bucky’s offer to tell him what’s going to happen. Fiona said that’s a big step, and if he makes it he should be proud.

Being proud of himself is another challenge. He’ll work on that one later. Right now he’ll focus on trying to teach himself that surprises can be good. “Did anyone leave?”

“Karen is in the gym I think,” Ned says slowly. “Anna is showing Sam the baking books she brought over, and Candy is playing in that giant jungle gym with Natasha. There’s been no call outs today, so everyone else is in the tower somewhere. Would you like to go and see them?”

***

The surprise is a good one. So much so that he can’t help but squeeze Bucky tight, burying his head in the man’s stomach, both as a thank you, and to hide his face. Puppies dance throughout the communal lounge. One is on the couch, wriggling its way onto his lap.

Kate was right. It’s hard to be sad when you’re covered in puppies.

Bucky strokes his hair. Soothing, like he knows how close to tears Matt is right now. “They’ll be with us until tomorrow morning. I figured they could join us for a sleepover. If you’re up for that pal?”

A sleepover was one of the ideas he’d hesitantly admitted he liked the idea of. All of the people he cares about together for even longer. He nods, trying to keep himself from crying. Emotions hit him hard lately. It’s easy to get overwhelmed, even by the good things.

Steve laughs. The fast heart rate of the puppy in front of him suggests he’s playing with it. “Matt? Did you decide which movie you wanted?”

They can watch a new movie for the others, but they’d decided he should watch one of his favourites too. Kiki’s delivery service, How to Train your Dragon, or Spirit Stallion of the Cimarron. Those are the movies he always goes back to. Before all this he wasn’t a fan of watching the same movie over again. Maybe it’s because of the holes that started littering his memory, or the way they stretched and grew as he lost weight. Maybe it’s because familiar is comforting now, and unfamiliar holds unknown amounts of triggers that could set his anxiety spinning.

Kiki never gives up, even though she gets scared sometimes. Toothless and Hiccup look after each other. Spirit is hurt, and sometimes he breaks, but he always gets back up.

“Spirit,” he decides, pulling back from Bucky. Matt broke many times over. But maybe that doesn’t mean he’ll always be this broken.

***

Tight pattern of footsteps as Tony spins around. “Do I pass inspection?” Matt has a new job, Bruce had told him earlier when they were looking through massage oils to find ones that didn’t feel terrible on his skin. He needs to make sure no one hides their injuries. People do that all the time, Bruce says. And it’s bad because everyone needs to look after each other.

Matt tilts his head, leaning forward on the couch. “Walk back and forth. I want to see if you sound right.”

Tony does as he’s told with an exasperated sigh on the other side of the coffee table. Behind the couch everyone but Bruce, Bucky, Foggy, and Pepper mill around. Foggy and Pepper are working. Bucky’s doing a practical lesson somewhere in the tower. Bruce is working in his lab since the mission was too delicate to bring the Hulk.

Tony sounds fine. His footsteps sound like they should. No strange movements to compensate for an injury, or pained breathing. No odd distributions of warmth. “I think you’re OK.”

“That’s a relief to hear.” Tony’s fast footsteps detour toward the kitchen area. “I’m making you a smoothie. Then it’s time for a piano lesson. Bring your inner Mozart.”

Twisting himself at an angle, he levers himself up until his head pokes over the back of the couch. It makes it easier to analyse the other’s warmth when they pass close to the back of the couch. “Clint has a limp.”

Clint groans. “Busted…”

Smile in Natasha’s voice. “Sit down. Show me the damage.”

Everyone else seems fine, except… “Steve is too warm on his stomach. His right side.”

Sheepish tone in Steve’s voice. “I didn’t think it was important. It’s already healing. It’ll be gone in an hour.”

“You’re setting a bad example Capsicle.” Gesture from Tony.

Movement as Thor gets the first aid kit. “Here my friend.”

“It’ll be good to clean it at least,” Sam says. “Go sit your ass down next to Matt like a good patient.”

Steve’s feet drag, but he does as he’s told.

***

He’s sitting in Tony’s workshop, using a large pair of scissors to trim the cardboard when they slip and stab his forearm.

A second before the scissors disappear from his grip. “Now I’m glad I didn’t give you the hobby knife.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Matt says quickly. He’s getting better at not hurting himself during the day, but sometimes at night he forgets. Foggy always sounds sad when he forgets.

“Cool beans.” Slam of plastic against metal as Tony puts a first aid kit on the workbench. “Now are you going to clean it, or am I?”

It’s almost three weeks since he broke his finger, but the cast is still on. His body needs nutrients to help himself heal Bruce says whenever he helps Matt put together his tube feedings. They talk a lot about ratios of protein, carbohydrates, fats. What each vitamin does to his body and why he needs them. It’s very different to the things Stick taught him.

Every day there’s theraplay with Foggy. Sometimes Ned or Mom join in. Cream rubbed into wounds that shouldn’t matter. Praise. Games that make him feel like he’s the centre of their world for a little while. A feeling shudders through him. He’s not sure what emotion it is. “I can do it.”

Click click as Tony opens the first aid kit. Scrape as he pushes it toward Matt. The movement is flippant. It’s only the continued warmth of Tony by his side that tells him the man is keeping an eye on him. He hasn’t hurt himself as badly as the broken finger incident, but he has hurt himself, and he has used his safety plan.

The cut is small. He wouldn’t bother with it before. It’s something that should heal within a couple of weeks, even considering how slowly he heals now. Reading the braille labels he tears open a antiseptic wipe and cleans the wound. Then he hesitates before finding the cream. This is his favourite kind. He didn’t even know he had a favourite until recently. It cools and soothes, chasing the sting away. He spreads it on carefully.

“I feel better now,” he says when he clicks the first aid kit shut. “Can I finish making the puzzle?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings =
> 
> Self harm (breaking a finger) in scene 7, strong emotions, mentions of other self harm, low self esteem and gradual recovery from that, Matt's usual anxiety around new places and people, discussions of the tube and eating disorders (including Matt's various triggers of his eating disorder), Matt talks about his rape, depression, Matt's complicated relationship with his father, discussions and thoughts of Stick.
> 
> Author's note =
> 
> I think this chapter shows most clearly one of the outcomes theraplay aims for. After all, if you've missed out on some of the nurturing and care children need, then how are you expected to know how to show that to yourself, or believe you're worth anything? Not that theraplay is the only way to go about developing self esteem and self worth. There are many ways. Matt's self esteem has a way to go, but it's slowly climbing upwards.


	64. Chapter 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for possible spoilery trigger warnings.

The plastic cross bites into his hand. There’s thinner plastic at the front, like the kind they put over pieces of paper. When he presses it he can hear the thin card move beneath it. “What - what does it say?”

Bucky’s warm, kneeling by his side. The metal hand grips his shoulder, keeping him steady. Without it he wouldn’t be able to get this close to the grave. “Albert Jones.”

It doesn’t make sense, but Bucky’s heart beats truth. Matt takes his hand from the cross. It’s like the one they gave his Dad before they put the gravestone up. “He’s dead.”

Steve’s warmth hovers over them. It doesn’t make him want to curl up like it does when over people loom over him. Steve’s muscles are tense. He slowly moves from side to side. Scanning the graveyard. Protecting him and Bucky. “He’s dead. He’s not coming back.”

The ground in front of the cross is warmer than the ground they walked through to get here. It echoes the sound-waves less sharply. More recently disturbed. The warmth suggests decomposition, and “I smell death.”

Bucky’s metal fingers twitch around his shoulder. “Do you want to leave pal?”

Yes. No. They’ve told him many times that Cocaine and Skittles - Albert Jones and Adam Thomas are dead. This feels more concrete. There’s another warm patch of ground to his right. He gestures toward it. “Is that Thomas?”

“That’s him.” Bucky’s hand doesn’t move from his shoulder.

He only realises that he’s blanked out a little when Lucky nudges his knee. It’s not scary being here surrounded by death. It’s just confusing. They say Albert Jones and Adam Thomas are dead. He understands that, but sometimes…

How can a monster die? How can a monster die in something as insignificant as a prison fight? An event set up by Fisk so Captain Darius could hide his tracks. One thought in a desperate man’s head, and monsters are killed before they can be punished for what they did. This is not how the story is supposed to go.

They crouch long enough for his knees to seize up. September chill creeps its way into his bones.

Enough of this.

Getting to his feet, he tries to find something good to distract himself from the numbness. “Can we visit Ned before we go back?”

***

Matt hums to himself as he walks through the cafeteria floor.

Stacy wasn’t on shift today, but that’s OK because he’s getting used to the other people who work at the coffee bar. Tracy has a cat who plays fetch just like Tuna does. Jack was frightening at first. He swears under his breath and sometimes makes sudden movements, but Clint says he doesn’t mean to, and he’s always polite when you talk directly to him. He never makes fun when Matt stammers, or can’t speak at all and has to use notes.

He grips the doppio carefully. Nowadays he has a lot of jobs. He needs to make sure people take care of themselves when they get injured. He needs to feed Tuna and Lucky. He needs to help with breakfast every day (after bad nights it’s the only reason he can force himself out of bed). He needs to do his therapy exercises. He needs to mix his feeds, go outside the tower at least once every two days, and work with Foggy on the legal floor for an hour every week day.

Then there’s this. Bringing someone something from the cafeteria floor every day. Today it’s Pepper’s turn.

“Murdock,” a familiar voice says. “I see you finally got that cast off.”

Matt grins, bouncing on his feet. Bucky says Omer is one of the nicest guys on security. It’s hard to remember why he’d disliked him so much when they were introduced. Then again, he tends to dislike everyone when he first meets them. “Claire gave me permission.”

“Claire?” The man asks.

Right, sometimes he forgets that these people aren’t the centre of everyone else’s world as well as his. “She’s brave and amazing and she smells like disinfectant.”

“I can see why you take her advice so seriously.” Smile in the man’s voice. The same gentle smile he had when he’d first talked to Matt, telling him about his six children, the animals he and his wife took home one by one from the rescue centre he and Bucky volunteer at, what they did on his youngest’s birthday party. “Now boss, ready for the report?”

Matt nods. This is something that isn’t a job, but is something he likes to do ever since he started spending enough time around the security staff for some of them to stop seeming frightening. He finds Omer or one of the other staff at least three times a day.

Omer reels off his security report for the cafeteria and recreation floor where he’d been based for most of the morning. He includes a basic overview of the security status of the building. Staff aren’t told about false alarms and small details that happen on floors they don’t work on, but they are told of any incidents and possible threats. Today there are none.

It’s soothing to listen to the words that tell him everything is OK. Jarvis and Bucky can give him security reports for any part of the tower. Often he’ll ask them too. But it’s nice to hear the words from a different source. It makes it feel more real.

“Oh and I made some more baklava,” Omer says once he’s finished. “I expect you to eat all of it. You need some meat on your bones.”

“I gained one and a half pounds last week,” Matt counters, but he takes the tupperware container. It smells good. “I’m above the line.”

“Then eat the baklava as celebration,” Omer says, smile in his voice. “Sneak me some of Falcon’s cookies so I can celebrate too.”

***

Tuna steps into the lift with Matt and Lucky. It’s a mistake, he warns her as they travel to the therapy floor, because Tuna doesn’t like his new friend up there.

Right now his therapy involves spending time with people. Fiona says that most of his fears revolve around people, and he needs to build enough positive relationships to try to prove to himself that not all strangers are dangerous or untrustworthy. He’s had very bad experiences with strangers, and his mind is trying to protect him from more bad experiences by doing all it can to make him avoid more strangers.

It’s uncomfortable, but they do it at a slow pace. Not having to worry about eating makes it easier. He’s not sure he could’ve made the progress he has without the feeding tube.

Today he keeps to his normal routine, ignoring the admin staff he passes on the way to Pepper’s office. There aren’t as many people working on her floor as the others, but there are some. A few say hello. He keeps his head low and doesn’t say hello back. It’s rude, but necessary. Social interactions take a lot out of him right now. In order to do what he needs to do on this floor, he needs to save that energy.

It’s a straight line to the room outside Pepper’s office where his new friend is. Finding the edge of the large reception desk, he sets Pepper’s drink and the tupperware container down. Crouching, he reaches into his satchel to take out the dog treats he and Clint made yesterday. Lucky’s heartbeat picks up, so he gives him one. The other is handed to the warm lump on the floor, partly hidden under the reception desk. Daisy is very old and she doesn’t have many teeth. She chews it slowly.

Tuna growls at the rhythmic thump thump of the old dog’s tail, moving between Lucky and the other dog.

“She’s doing better today,” the girl behind the reception desk says. Sarah. Nineteen. Worked in the rescue centre with Bucky before getting a job here. She still volunteers there on weekends because they say no one can organise like she can. “The heart medication the vet put her on seems to help.”

Matt flinches. Being low to the ground is uncomfortable with the wrong people over him. But it does mean he gets to spend time with Daisy. This is another of his jobs. Giving Daisy a treat when he comes to give Pepper her doppio. He strokes the dog’s coarse fur. People can’t always be trusted. Animals are easier. “I think so.”

They talk for a minute about dogs. Sarah’s family used to breed them, and she knows a lot. She’s the one who gave them the dog treat recipe. She always listens attentively to anything he has to say about Lucky. The dog is as much a friend as Bucky and Steve. It’s good to be able to talk about something positive with people. Talking about Lucky, his other friends, safe topics like Toothless, Kiki, Spirit, and ponies. It helps.

He stops mid-sentence, telling Sarah about the time when Lucky ran off when he, Kate, and Clint were walking him, and came back stinking of pizza. Something is wrong.

Crying. Someone is crying.

Heart squeezing in his chest, he gets to his feet. The sound is hushed like the person is hiding it. Muffled. Hand over mouth? It’s female. Familiar. Pepper.

Less than a second later he’s in her office, coffee and tupperware container held tight.

Sharp movement as she startles. Relived sound as she relaxes in her chair. She let him try it once. It’s really weird, and took too many instructions before he managed to sit in it. Comfy though, even if it doesn’t spin. “Matt. Sorry. I’m a mess. I forgot you were coming.”

At least this isn’t because he took too long with her coffee. He sets it carefully on her desk anyway. Maybe that will make things better? Or not? A coffee doesn’t seem like enough. He sets the tupperware container down too. “Omer made baklava. It’s really nice. He always makes different kinds, so if you don’t like one you might like one of the others.”

Pepper sniffs before taking a deep breath like he does when he tries to stop crying. It never seems to work for him, but her voice comes out less wet, so maybe it works for her. “You were going to show me the new puzzle you made, weren’t you? Then we were going to do a crossword puzzle.”

Words are still difficult. Fiona explained it, saying things like: ‘hypo-activation of the prefrontal cortex’ and ‘poor verbal fluency’ and ‘memory impairments.’ Then she broke it down, and later Nat broke it down further. Other people with PTSD have problems with words, understanding, and memory. He’s not the only one. Sometimes he can’t find the word he wants to say. Doing crosswords with Pepper and Bruce is supposed to help him with that.

“Talking about what’s bothering you might help?” He suggests. She’s not supposed to sound sad. She’s too strong for that.

But…sometimes Bucky, and Foggy, and the others sound sad. Nat says everyone is sad sometimes, just like everyone is happy sometimes or angry or scared. Expecting Pepper to be any different isn’t fair to her.

“It’s nothing.” Sudden movement as she raises her hands to her face, then drops them - slap - on the odd shaped chair. “It’s everything. This week has been really busy. We achieved a new deal with a key supplier of prosthetics. That’s great. It’s what we’ve been aiming for, but it means more work. I’ll need to reschedule the entire quarter, and I think we’ll still need to recruit at least fifty more employees. This morning my favourite bag broke. And a few days ago I stepped on Tuna’s tail, and she hasn’t looked at me the same since. I’ll be fine. I was just overwhelmed.”

It makes sense. Most of the time when he loses it, it’s not because of one thing. It’s a dozen different things, some of them good. Stress builds up. “Your cup overflowed.”

A few moments of hesitant breath before a smile enters her voice. “Wasn’t that in one of Natasha’s books? It’s the moment when the stress of the day becomes more than your capacity to cope, right?”

Right. He nods. Tuna bumps against his leg, reaching up to paw at his trousers. He picks her up. Purring lets him know it was the correct move. He places her gently on the desk in front of Pepper. “Bucky says stroking animals lowers your blood pressure. She wants attention.”

Sound of skin gliding against soft fur as Pepper strokes the cat. Tuna’s purring increases.

“You need to create space in your cup,” he tells her. What does Pepper find calming? She likes puzzles and memory games. She and Matt do crossword puzzles at least once a week. They do other kinds of puzzles more often. Tactile puzzles are the best ones. But Pepper tends to get excited over puzzle games. Excitement doesn’t help him recharge, and he doesn’t think it will help Pepper. She does sound calmer after she visits the spa on Wednesdays. “Take a break and do something calming. Bruce taught me how to do hand massages?”

“That sounds like a lovely idea.”

***

Cucumbers are nice.

He likes to cut them into quarters, and press the watery middle bit against his lips. It tastes fresh. Not too strong. Kate packed his lunch today. It’s in a bento box with five different compartments. Chopped up cucumber in one. Watermelon in another. Chocolate dates, raisins, almonds in a third. Chocolate truffles in the smallest compartment. Oatmeal and cookie in the largest one.

He won’t eat it all. He never does, but he’s getting closer to managing a full meal. It’s easier to eat now he’s not being forced to. He can eat as much or as little as he wants. He can eat whatever he wants, including chocolate (although Sam does remind him that chocolate isn’t a full meal). Steve’s introduced him to all these foods, encouraging him to touch and smell them, and to taste them if he can.

No one tells him to sit up straight or eat properly. No one tells him not to dawdle. The first time he tasted something after the tube, he hadn’t meant to. He was just exploring the apple sauce. Squishing it between his fingers and wondering how the ponies in Bucky’s show made it with hooves instead of hands. Then he tasted some, then a little more, then he needed to stop because it was too much taste in his mouth.

Sometimes they praise him, like when he gets dizzy or upset and they want him to drink some water or juice. Or whenever Foggy gives him something to drink during theraplay, because everything in theraplay is praised. Other times they don’t say anything. Both ways work. Praise make his insides glow warm. It’s good to know he’s doing something right. But it can be intense, which doesn’t help when he’s trying to feel less tense about eating foods.

“Look,” Marci says. “I know it’s a flimsy excuse. No history of psychosis, and the first time she mentions she hears things was after she gets arrested for trespassing. I mean. She doesn’t look like the kind of person who hears babies crying when no babies are there-”

Cloth shuffling as Foggy shrugs. “What does an individual hallucinating babies look like? And she did have that abortion. Could be a plausible trigger.”

Matt moves his chair from side to side. Tuna chirps, jumping up and scrabbling a bit before she finds his lap. She likes spinning chairs more than he does.

Marci sighs. She’s sitting on Foggy’s desk, even though they have spare chairs in the room. The other chairs don’t spin though. “She had the abortion two years ago. If it was in the last few months, maybe. Even the last six months and they might accept that as proof she’s telling the truth.”

“Hey.” Foggy’s voice hushes. “You know it’s not as easy as that. Her mother’s had some health problems, right? The stress of that could’ve triggered some past issues she hasn’t fully dealt with. It’s not as smooth a narrative for the judge, but if she manages to get a medical professional to testify she’s having these auditory hallucinations, or even that it’s possible she had one at the store which caused her to go into an area she wasn’t supposed to. That could help.”

It’s not nice to chew. It’s odd. It’s not like he was chewing when the bad things happened that involved his mouth, but chewing does make him more aware of the sensations in his mouth. Tastes and textures. How his tongue and teeth move. It’s hard to remember what happened that second time, the one with Cocaine. But sometimes phantom sensations will start in his lips and jaw, moving to press down on his tongue, and he thinks he remembers.

Don’t focus on it, Fiona had said. Don’t block it out, but don’t focus on it either. Try to think about positive memories about food. Sometimes his mind drifts to Stick. Food became a test with Stick. Something he could pass and fail on, not enjoy. That’s not useful either. He needs to remember what it’s like to enjoy food.

Eating ice cream in the park with his Dad. It’s one of his few favourite foods from childhood that Stick’s tests didn’t ruin. When Ned discovered he hadn’t tried coffee after roping him into helping fix a car, and the time the man spent giving him different combinations of sugar and milk to see how he liked it. The pumpkin spice latte Foggy bought him when he found out Matt’s coffee cherry was popped by ‘the abomination.’ The treats Foggy brought him to ‘lure him to the dark side’ because ‘seriously Matt, you’re allowed to indulge. I know you have a sweet tooth. You can’t hide from me.’ The first time Mom baked him cinnamon roll.

He is allowed nice things, no matter what Stick said. And he has nice memories about sensations in his mouth as well as bad ones. By concentrating on the things he likes, such as the taste of chocolate, the bad memories won’t have so much power.

There’s a click sound as Marci taps her heels against Foggy’s desk. “I believe her too Foggy-bear. It’s just that people expect those hallucinating to be a little easier to spot. The security footage we have seems to show her acting completely sane. The staff member who found her said she mentioned looking for a baby who might be in trouble, but said she didn’t seem agitated or unreasonable.”

“The prosecutor might drop the charges if she promises to attend therapy to make sure it doesn’t happen again. If she admits what she did, gives her reasons, she’ll probably get a fine at most. We could use the necessity defence if we can prove she thought a child was in danger and there was no other alternative to help protect them from harm,” Matt suggests, spinning his chair all the way around. He swallows the cucumber, fingers searching the desk for something that isn’t there. “Can you see the piece from the puzzle Ned and Mom got me? I think I dropped it.”

***

“I want to break everything,” Matt says that Saturday, the 17th of September.

Foggy squeezes his hand. “I know bud. You’re angry. I’m pretty pissed too.”

His hands turn into fists. His head pounds. Bad signs. He should act before it’s too difficult to communicate. “I need to hit.”

“That’s why I told you in here.” Cloth against carpet as Foggy pushes the beanbag chair towards him. “Giant beanbag coming your way. Knock the stuffing out of it. Only, don’t really. It’s a nice beanbag.”

It is a nice beanbag, and it’s lived through more than one beating. Whenever he gets too worked up while he’s doing therapy with Fiona, she reminds him that he can hit it. It’s better than hitting the carpet or himself, or throwing the sand tray figures. Although that last one has happened too. Throwing things seems to be instinctive when he gets worked up, just like hitting and biting.

Angling himself away from the prodding Lucky, he slams both fists into the beanbag. The pinky finger on his right hand throbs. It makes him pause despite the anger. “Be careful with your finger. It’s still healing.”

Slight strain in Foggy’s voice. It appears when Matt does something odd. It soon disappears. “We give great advice.”

They do. And sometimes it helps to repeat their advice out loud. His head can be a chaotic place when he’s feeling a lot. It’s hard to make himself stop and do something other than the destructive things his emotions want him to do. Speaking to himself helps him remember what he’s supposed to do.

He punches the beanbag with his good hand instead. He hits until his heart races and his breathing comes too fast. Better. Easier to think. “It was ours.”

“They were grade A assholes,” Foggy agrees. Slight snarl to his voice. It’s still odd to think that other people could feel anger with the same intensity as he does. It’s hard to acknowledge that Foggy feels angry. That it’s normal. That it’s not something Matt did wrong or something he needs to fix. “Everyone joined together and fixed up our office. I know you didn’t manage to visit, but it looked better than it did before. Then the assholes break in and trash it again.”

“This is going to keep happening.”

“I’ve thought about that.” Hesitation in Foggy’s voice.

“Because of me,” Matt adds bitterly.

“Because of them,” Foggy says firmly. “Because of a choice they made.”

That’s right. They made the choice. “Because of a choice they made.”

“Listen Matty. We’re less than a mile from Hell’s Kitchen. I figure you still want to take most of our clients from there? I’ve worked out a deal with Pepper. She’ll let us see our own clients out of the office I’m working in. In exchange we pick up some cases from their pro bono department, and maybe help out when the Avengers get themselves in a legal mess. I know you liked our old office, but that sounds doable, right?”

That sounds sensible. “Did the office have dead dogs too?”

“No dead dogs. Live rats though.”

He’s not good at choices, but this one seems obvious. No amount of work would make that office safe for Foggy and Karen to work in. Not with Matt in their lives. Jarvis would keep them safe. Jarvis scans everyone who enters the tower for weapons. He has a million other safety features. Matt trusts Jarvis to keep his friends safe. But… “It was ours.”

“I know bud.”

“I’ll miss it.”

“Musty smell and all.” Movement as Foggy nods. “If we want to move out in a year or so, we totally can. But I figure there’s no point holding onto it while the media attention isn’t going to let us use it safely. Maybe after things finally die down.”

That’s never going to happen, but it’s nice to pretend. “They’re still talking about me?”

“There’s a documentary about you coming out soon,” Foggy says softly. “That’s heated up things again. And the trials for some of the other videos are happening. But you don’t need to worry about that. Just concentrate on getting better.”

He’s trying not to pay attention to the trials. It’s enough to know that Lawrence Rowe, Dennis Short, and Todd Vasquez will be in prison for years. Wright was convicted for kidnapping Matt, although his attempted murder of Foggy is harder to prove in court. Justin Fletcher’s release date should be around June next year if he serves his full sentence. That’s nine months away. Captain Darius he’s not as sure about. The man’s trial just keeps on dragging on and on. And the man is out on bail while it happens.

But Nat says he and Fisk won’t try to kidnap and hide him away like Fisk did before. Not anytime soon.

“If you really want to keep it, then we’ll keep it,” Foggy says. “Father Lantom already said he knows people who will want to help fix it up. It just doesn’t seem fair to them. And I’m not sure it’s fair to you, holding onto that place when we won’t be able to use it for a while.”

Matt hugs the beanbag. Lucky licks his knuckles. “I’ll never be able to use it. I’m not a lawyer anymore.”

“You are one of the best damn avocados around.” Movement. Foggy brushes hair out of Matt’s face. It’s getting long. “Would I lie to you?”

“I took too long to answer the questions they sent me.” Matt huffs. “And I threw the computer twice.”

“How many questions did you answer?”

“Four.” Matt shakes his head. It doesn’t count. “It took days. That’s too long. I kept on forgetting and getting distracted. I couldn’t think.”

“That’s four more than you could do a month ago,” Foggy points out.

He’s right. He slumps his shoulders. “Celebrate incremental progress,” he recites.

“You’re getting there buddy.” Foggy ruffles his hair, ruining his attempts at neatening it. “Focus on the bright side, right? That’s part of therapy. How are we going to decorate our awesome new office? I vote lego starwars models everywhere. ‘May the law be with you.’”

***

“His scent is gone I think.” Matt passes Ned his Dad’s boxing robe. “But sometimes I think I smell it.”

And it feels like he’s here. It feels like his Dad is here, cradling him like after the accident. Or sitting close and reading Where the Wild Things Are, The Little Wooden Horse, or a biography about someone who made something of themselves.

Lately he’s been spending more time with Ned and Steve. Steve helps him explore food, tastes, scents, and textures. They do art together, and sometimes it doesn’t even involve food. Ned makes things with him. A catapult to play fetch with Tuna. Helicopters out of pencils. Sometimes Tony appears out of nowhere and joins in.

Time with Steve and Ned. Theraplay. Time with Mom, Bucky, the others. It helps lessen the moments when he feels small and helpless.

Ned takes the robe. Silk against callused hands. “I never had the chance to see your father box in person. Foggy did show me a video of some of his matches though. I don’t know anything about fighting, but I could see he was a very determined man.”

Matt smiles, hands gripping the sides of the chest. “He always ended a match on his feet, even if he didn’t always win.”

Ned insisted on sitting on the floor next to him and the trunk, even though getting up and down can make his back act up. He said he knows that if he stiffens up and gets stuck ‘you’ll help me son.’ It makes Matt’s insides glow warm at being trusted. “Do you feel like showing me what else is in that box?”

Yes. No. Some of these things he hasn’t even shown Foggy yet. But there’s something inside him that wants Ned to know everything about his Dad. Somehow it’s important. He takes objects out slowly. The chest is also his cooling down chest. The top is packed with pieces of soft fabric, the avocado shaped stress toy, fidget toys, small puzzles. Things to help him calm. Every day he puts some in his satchel to take with him.

There are good memories like his Dad’s robe, his Dad’s boxing gloves, short notes Foggy used to etch for him with a stylus, an ice cream wrapper, a coffee sleeve, an empty wrapper of the most terrible tasting sweets imaginable, a menu for the restaurant Mom and Ned took him and Foggy to when they graduated law school, little trinkets that mean the world.

Hidden deep in the bottom is a medical bill he knows his Dad never wanted him to find. It was wedged to the side of the secret compartment the day he discovered it, years after strangers searched through the box and finally relented to his pleas to let him take it with him. No letters. He remembers wild hope entering his chest, that his Dad left him some message to explain why he left, or even a simple reminder that he loved him. But there are photographs that his fingers can’t read.

Gathering up the stack, he hands them to Ned. “I don’t know what’s on them. I was going to ask Foggy to describe them to me.”

Card sliding against card as Ned looks through them. His heart makes a stuttering sound Matt can’t interpret. “Would you like me to?”

“Not if - I don’t want to know if it’s anything bad.” His fingers play with the material of his sweatpants. He’d play with Lucky’s fur, but the dog is currently asleep on the other side of Matt’s bed.

“It doesn’t look like anything bad.”

Fisting the material tight, Matt nods.

“This one is of you.” Ned leans close. His slow movements and solid presence are comforting. “You’re young. Less than two years old. You’re holding a picture book up to the camera. There’s a pleading expression on your face, like you’re asking someone to read it again. There’s not much lighting, and you’re in your pyjamas. Foggy used to do the same thing. Waking us up at night because he wanted something. Except he usually wanted someone to play whatever game he’d dreamed up with his toys.”

His chest tightens. Both at the knowledge that the pictures his Dad kept were of him, and the idea of meeting Foggy at that age. Sometimes there were other kids at his Grandma’s house when she looked after him, but none of them asked him to join in their games. Who would after hearing the things his Grandma said about him?

Ned describes the pictures. Most are of a baby with large hazel eyes. Sometimes the baby is pictured with a man, and sometimes with a woman. Both man and woman are young. “I forgot how much younger your father is than me,” Ned says. The woman has thick brown hair and a slim figure. In some pictures the man and women are alone. In some they are together, and they look happy.

Do they look happy in the pictures with the baby, Matt wants to ask. But there are some words that catch in his throat, no matter how much he’s practised speaking without thinking about it. He leans against Ned’s side instead, and the man’s arm rests on his shoulders. “Why do you want to adopt me?”

“One day, after I started dating Anna, Foggy fell down and cracked his tooth. There was a lot of blood and the poor kid was inconsolable. I was at work, so Anna rushed him to the emergency room. They said she couldn’t go in the room with him. You didn’t hear it from me, but Anna can be a little overbearing at times, which is why I think they wanted her out of the room. One of the nurses said it was because they weren’t related. That night, after she told me, she said that wasn’t true. She placed a hand over her heart and said ‘Ned, I don’t care what anyone else says. He’s mine. I feel it in here.’ Matt, son. I don’t know when it started, but you’re mine as much as Candy and Foggy.”

It’s a lot to take in. Something about his mood must show, because Lucky finally wakes up and trots around the bed to rest his head on Matt’s knee. It takes a while to find words. “I’m sorry I can’t call you dad.”

“That’s fine son. You had a dad who you love very much. I’m not trying to replace him. I’m trying to be someone you can trust to be there for you when you need them.”

That sounds wonderful. “I’m trying to be someone who allows people to do that.”

***

“You want to explode. Your face feels hot.　 You breathe faster.　 Your heart beats faster.　 Your hands want to grab, hit or throw something.　 Your feet want to kick or run,” Sam reads out.

The book is one Bruce gave him. Mad isn’t Bad. It’s more grown up than some of his other books, and reads less like a story than an information booklet. “Do people really get angry that much?”

Sam sits next to him on the bench in the changing room. Emotions were difficult to handle around his birthday, so he’d asked that they didn’t get him presents. They’d talked about it and decided to stagger out the presents instead. Bucky’s visit with the puppies on his birthday. Then presents every now and again when he’s feeling more stable. They’re waiting for Tony to set up Matt’s birthday present so he can try it. “Everyone gets angry. I think everyone feels really angry from time to time. Especially when you’ve gone through something traumatic.”

It’s a lot to think about. “The kind of anger that makes you feel like something inside you is clawing itself out. Something that wants to hurt.”

“Completely normal,” Sam says calmly. “I’ve broken more than my share of things after Riley died. And I think the only people living in this tower who haven’t harmed someone or something in the middle of an angry outburst are Natasha and Pepper.”

“When I was a kid I threw things. I got into fights. The nuns and my teachers said I was a problem.”

“You weren’t a problem Matt,” Sam says firmly. “You had a problem. You were a child who went through trauma and reacted in a very common way. Did you get any therapy after your dad died?”

Matt shrugs. “People came to see me after I started screaming so bad they had to separate me from the other kids. They asked questions. They made me take medications. I don’t remember that much until Stick came.”

“What was Stick’s view on anger?”

“Said it was useful, but I needed to control it.”

Slight apprehension in Sam’s voice. “How did he teach you how to control it?”

“He hit me until I learnt.”

From Sam’s fast breathing, it sounds like he needs to use some of the suggestions for managing anger from the book.

***

The sound waves close in around him as Tony shuts the door, and Matt panics.

Slap of his hand against the plastic door of the pod. Splash of water as he launches himself at the edge of the plastic container. Hand with Tony’s heartbeat lands on his shoulder. “Whoa. What’s the problem?”

Matt can’t breathe. The dreams about his grandma linger in his head mixing with the sound the van door made when it slammed shut. “Don’t shut the door.”

“Is that all?” Movement as the plastic door opens fully, leaving space above Matt. “It can stay open. You won’t get the full floating tank experience, but I figure with your super senses, you won’t get the full experience anyway.”

Matt clings to the edge of the plastic pod. It’s curved, kind of like a giant egg. “You won’t shut it?”

“Cross my heart and hope to teach sociology.” Movement. Sound of fabric. The hand not on his shoulder crosses Tony’s heart? “Still want to try it?”

Tony had talked about the positive effects of floating therapy on anxiety. And he and Bruce went as far as making one themselves so Matt could try it. He should try it. He eases himself back into the water.

The water is odd. It smells strongly of salt, and it holds him in a way the swimming pool doesn’t, letting him float on the surface. The water is deep enough that he doesn’t touch the bottom, but not a lot deeper. The tank is wide enough that when he lies on his back, his hands don’t touch the side. The water covers his ears and settles around his body in a way that dulls most of the sensations to his skin.

It’s no effort to stay floating like that. Tony said it’s something to do with the surface tension of the salt infused water. It won’t let him sink.

The hand with Tony’s heartbeat touches his forehead. “Deep breaths pup. Nice and slow.”

Matt slows his breaths. The water wrapped around him is odd, but not unpleasant. It’s warm. “Are you going to stay?” The water over his ears makes it harder to sense things. He doesn’t like the thought of being left vulnerable.

“I have some work I can do here.” Tony’s voice is distorted from the water, but still possible to understand. “Relax. You can sleep if you want. I’ll wake you in an hour.”

Soothing music fills the room. It’s nice, like the water is starting to be. His muscles relax, finally understanding that he doesn’t need to hold himself in place. The water does that for him. It cradles him. Protecting him against the barrage of air currents, changes in temperature, and most of the other sensations that make up his daily life.

It’s like when Steve places a hand over his to trace drawings while describing them. Or Foggy taking care of him in theraplay. Bucky’s arm looped over his shoulders. Mom stroking his hair. Watching movies or listening to books with Karen. Ned, movements slow and mood even, as they complete one of the puzzles Matt made. Tony teaching him piano. Thor telling him tales of other worlds. When someone reads him a story, or when he listens to one of his familiar movies. Like someone’s found a dimmer switch to the chaotic place that is his mind, and is dialling the intensity down so it’s not so overwhelming.

***

“I want to go to the spa,” Matt grumbles.

Foggy strokes his hair. His fingers are cool when they brush against his forehead. “I know bud.”

The cushion is soft under his head. The weighted blanket makes him feel even hotter and sweatier than he is, but the comfort makes it worth it. Just like the comfort of lying on the couch with his head in Foggy’s lap is worth the heat of Foggy around him. “And me and Bucky were going to start volunteering at the rescue centre tomorrow.”

Plastic against leather as Foggy puts down his tablet. “Hey, you could be better by then.”

Matt shakes his head, which ouch bad idea. His headache pounds faster and a wave of dizziness washes over him. The dizziness is the worst thing. He’d collapsed getting up from his bed, again in the shower, and twice on the way down here. Thor asked him why he didn’t stay in bed, but he’d wanted the comfort of the couch. “If it’s like the other times, it’s going to get worse.”

“Then you’ll get better.”

It takes more effort than it should to shift under the weighted blanket. He barely manages to turn on his side, burying his face in Foggy’s stomach. “Every time I get better, things just get worse.”

“You’re doing good.” Foggy’s fingers move the hair out of his face. “You’re going outside the tower almost every day. You’re looking forward to things. You enjoyed last Sunday, right?”

He nods. They went to the zoo he, Foggy, and the Avengers went to before. He got to show Ned and Mom around and tell them what everyone’s favourite animal is. He enjoyed it so much that as soon as he arrived back at the tower, he needed to retreat to the hammock with one of the guided meditations Bruce put on his small computer. Hiding in the hammock when he needs quiet is something he’d encouraged to do. Tony placed cameras inside so Jarvis can make sure he’s safe. The material separating him from the world is soft, so it’s like hiding under a blanket. It doesn’t make him tense and upset like hiding in small spaces with solid walls does.

“And you’re looking forward to our next family day, right?”

They’re going to the museum of modern art. Ned booked a touch tour for them. Afterwards they’re going to eat ice cream in the park. It hurts to look forward to things, but it’s nice too. Even if nagging thoughts still tell him something is going to go wrong. “What if I’m ill again?”

“Then we’ll move the day or we’ll do something else at the tower. It’s no biggie.”

“But what if something really really bad happens?”

“Then we’ll deal with it.” Foggy’s heart beats truth around him. “Remember the book Nat read? The one with the girl who worried too much. She took out the worries and looked at them with someone else, like you’re doing. Then her worries became less. I understand that it’s difficult, and it’s going to take time, but you’re really trying. And hey, if need be there’s some tactics in that ‘what to do when you worry too much’ guide we haven’t tried. Rest, study, work Mr Summa Cum Laude. We can do this.”

***

“You’re allowed to enjoy things,” Fiona reminds him a couple days later.

Matt stops fiddling with the bean bag. “I do.”

Movement as Fiona leans forward in the chair. “Name one thing that you do solely because you enjoy it, and not because you get to spend time with someone, or because it makes someone happy.”

He does lots of activities now. “Bucky’s teaching me to swim again. Claire says I’ve gained enough weight to do gentle activities. Tony still gives me piano lessons. I do crosswords and memory games with Pepper. Art with Steve. Movie nights with Karen. Puzzles and crafts with Ned. I’m starting to help Foggy with some of his cases. I help Bruce make sure no one hides their injuries. I go for walks with Clint and Lucky. I read with Nat. I bake with Sam and Mom. Thor tells stories. Jess gives me updates. I’ve done some interviews with Trish Walker about the things I overheard in prison. And I go to Ed’s bakery to pick up things.”

“Do you enjoy all of those activities?”

Not all of them. “Reading with Nat is difficult. We always need to discuss the stories, and that’s not easy.” The simplest books are often the most complicated to discuss. They cover deep topics, and Nat never lets him skip the discussion. “I don’t like the interviews, but I like that they might help change things. I hate picking up things from the bakery, but it does help me get used to people. They know I go there, so there are people who talk about me. That’s something I need to get used to as well. I don’t always like the walks, but sometimes they’re fun. Crosswords are frustrating, and so are memory games when I’m having a bad day. Swimming isn’t fun, but it might become fun once I get better at it, and Bucky likes teaching me. I don’t like Jess’s updates, but it’s sensible to stay informed. I don’t like that I’m not much help to Foggy when we’re working together. Everything else is fun.”

“Do you do any of the activities you find fun on your own?”

Now that he’s thinking about it, he doesn’t. Not often. “Puzzles sometimes. I want to solve the one Ned and Mom gave me on my own. Crafts. I started making puzzles for Ned. He says he likes them. And I line the dinosaurs up and fiddle with the sensory box and my stim toys. But that’s to keep myself calm, not for fun.”

“You are very people orientated,” Fiona says. “Which is why it helped to pair activities you may like with people, to help you participate in them. I’m wondering if there’s anything you’d like to start doing on your own, or something you’d like doing with someone that we haven’t suggested yet.”

It’s difficult. “I don’t really enjoy anything, so it doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” Sound of flipping paper. “On Monday you said you enjoyed your trip to the zoo with Ned and Anna. On Tuesday you said you were looking forward to going to the spa because Pepper likes it when you choose a massage oil for her to try. On Saturday you were very anxious and decided that you were going to listen to the scenes in How to Train your Dragon where Hiccup and Toothless became friends to make yourself feel better.”

Sometimes it’s difficult to remember that there are other moments than this one, and he’s felt different emotions from the ones he’s feeling now. “Stories make things easier. They help when I’m missing my dad, or just when I’m sad or anxious. Ned reads The Little Wooden Horse sometimes, and Foggy reads funny stories, and Steve’s starting to read me Kiki’s delivery service. It’s different from the film. They mostly read me some before bed, and that helps. Maybe there are books I can read on my own? Braille books, not audio-books. I have braille books of some of the ones Nat read, but - when I was a kid my dad would read me stories about people who studied really hard and made it to big universities. Books about people who broke through obstacles and became successful. Maybe there are books from people who’ve been through things like this that I could try?”

Pen against paper as she writes it down. “That’s a good idea. There’s also the websites Sam showed you.”

He goes on them sometimes. Foggy goes on them more and is good at picking out pieces from the threads that are useful for Matt to hear. A few nights ago he did a search and came to Matt to summarise some of the many threads that talk about experiences of age regressive behaviour. There are lots of different reasons people suggest for why they are acting younger, from taking part in stress relieving behaviours that just happen to be labelled as childlike, to using fantasy to escape unpleasant realities, to being emotionally undeveloped through trauma, to the logical side of the brain being unable to engage as well after trauma. One woman mentioned that she completely regressed to childhood after a traumatic event. She thought it was because she lost her entire identity through the trauma, and having nothing to fall back on, acted in a way that could be seen as childlike.

The forums are difficult. They do label threads that contain triggering content, but that’s no guarantee he’s not going to come across something he can’t cope with. But maybe he could start spending more time on them, or asking Foggy to browse it with him sometimes. “Yeah. OK.”

“Did you have any thoughts about joining a group?”

Matt shakes his head. “I’m not ready for that yet. Could we - could we break down more steps before that?”

“What were you thinking?”

Going outside the tower is still difficult. And he still hates it when strangers talk about what happened to him. “Maybe the forums? I could make an account and ask some questions? Then they wouldn’t know who I am, and I wouldn’t need to leave the tower. And maybe when I get used to going outside the tower more and interacting with people, I could visit the building the group is going to be in? Then I could listen to some sessions without being in the same room as them. Then someone could come into the room with me, so they can stop people forcing me to interact if I don’t want to. And maybe at some point I can learn to join in. If it helps?”

“Group isn’t for everyone,” Fiona says. “Just like the therapy you’re doing now isn’t for everyone. But it is something that might be worth trying at some point in the future.”

Group helped Kate. And Fiona does keep on saying that he’s very people orientated, even if he doesn’t see that. It might help. But right now the thought of being in a room with a bunch of strangers, talking about feelings and what happened that night. It’s overwhelming. Strangers already saw the video. Why should he share more with them? “Shelve it for now?”

“Shelve it for now,” Fiona agrees. “How do you feel about Jarvis helping you record some of the good things that happen? So he can remind you of things that you’ve enjoyed?”

That could be OK. He can add them to the list of things Jarvis reminds him of during his morning routine. And it is in-keeping with one of his goals. “I’m supposed to focus on the positive, because I instinctively focus too much on the negative.”

“That’s the idea. You’re doing well.”

***

“Tough session?” The couch cushion jumps beneath him as Foggy sits down. A callused thumb swipes across his cheekbone, chasing the tear away.

Matt nods. Despite Fiona’s effort to end their sessions on a light note, he’s worn out. Since he hasn’t had an emotional outburst in a while, they’ve started going over the contents of the video again. Today they went over some of the phrases the men said. The more he can desensitise himself to them, the better. After all, they were on the video. If someone who saw the video wanted to antagonise him, saying some of those phrases might be the way they do it.

He’s not sure what scared him more. The fact that he remembers so few of the things they said, or the jolt of panic that speared through him hearing even the things he doesn’t remember.

A few of the phrases he can’t remember now. Like his mind chucked them away as soon as it heard them. Desensitisation is going to take a long time, and this is only the things on the video. Who knows how much happened that didn’t end up in the final video? Some of it was waiting around. He remembers his body screaming in pain, trying not to move so they wouldn’t notice him. But how much footage did they cut out because a face was shown or to save time or because someone couldn’t be bothered to turn the camera back on?

Will he ever know?

There’s the screw pop sound of Foggy removing the lid from the cream Matt likes. “Are you hurt anywhere Matt?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. Nods. “Everything hurts Foggy. Everything always hurts.”

Foggy’s hand returns to cup his cheek, before arms circles around him and pull him close. Deep pressure. Foggy’s really good at that. “You were happy yesterday, do you remember?”

“No.”

“Sam texted you from his mothers. What did he say?”

Matt takes a deep breath. The tears don’t stop. “He’s going to call the robot bird Redwing. He says we need to be polite to it because it’s his new bestie.”

“And how did that make you feel?”

It can be difficult to analyse his feelings in the moment, let alone look back and work out what he felt then with all the emotions sludging through his mind now. “Happy? Maybe?”

“Tell me why you were happy.”

The tears slow down. He sniffs against Foggy’s shoulder. “Sam likes the present me and Tony made for his birthday.”

“And did you hurt then?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“I know you feel bad right now buddy, but this feeling isn’t going to last forever.” Foggy squeezes him tighter as if in emphasis. “And we’re here for you. Whatever you need. Right now I’m going to do my best to take care of you, OK? So for the next thirty minutes you don’t need to worry about anything. I’ve got you.”

It’s a relief. Theraplay is a time he can breathe. No decisions. No worries. Jarvis takes care of the tower, and Foggy takes care of Matt. Whether it’s a thumb war, Foggy drawing shapes on Matt’s back, leading him around an obstacle course with the sound cancelling headphones on, the mirror game where Foggy says or does something that Matt has to copy, the pillow balance, or another activity.

Foggy will always be there for Matt when he needs him.

***

“Can I make some next time?” Matt asks, as he carries out the cutlery on Sunday.

Steve holds a giant vat that smells like hot metal and tomato and onion soup. It doesn’t smell as heavily processed as some of the other food in the giant room, but it’s not great. Too many added extras that shouldn’t be there.

Scrape as Steve slots the vat in place. “I don’t see why not. Bruce cooks sometimes. He’s good at making nutritious foods with few ingredients, but he hasn’t in a while since he’s been focusing on getting more fruit and vegetable donations from local farmers markets. It’s easier to get hot dog and mac and cheese donations here than it is to get a bag of apples. But you’re welcome to try scraping together what we have to make something.”

There are so many things wrong with the world, Matt thinks as Steve shows him where the cutlery goes. People go hungry so places like this soup kitchen need to be set up. People abandon animals or don’t have the means to look after them, so the rescue centre needs to be set up. All the violence that happens in Rikers. All the violence that happens in the streets, in houses, in schools. All the indifference to that violence.

He wishes he could help like he did when he was Daredevil.

“It’s good to see you again Captain Rogers,” one of the many volunteers passing around them says. Distinctive sound of her apron wrinkling. “How long has it been?”

“Too long Sandy.” Smile in Steve’s voice. “And please, Steve is fine.”

“Is this the extra volunteer you told us about?”

Matt moves closer to Steve’s side. Moving closer means he’s less likely to panic and run away. They arrived early when there would be less people. Now there are more, but they move around doing their things, exchanging greetings with Steve and good mornings Matt doesn’t need to reply to. Theraplay leaves him feeling more confident and better able to cope with situations, but it has limits. “Hello.” Lucky leans against his legs.

“Hello. Matt, right?”

Matt nods. He fiddles with his cane to stop himself gripping onto Steve’s sleeve. He’ll need to hold onto Steve in a moment anyway when they start moving. His super-senses are good, but they don’t hold up to navigating crowds. Not for long periods of time. “We need to put the rest of the cutlery out.”

“We need to put the rest of the cutlery out,” Steve confirms. “It was nice talking with you Sandy. I’ll see you later. Bruce is around here somewhere as well.”

“It was very nice to meet you,” Matt remembers to say. Sandy says something polite in response, not seeming put off. They walk off.

“You’re doing well,” Steve whispers to him as they go to find more cutlery. “Let me know if you need a break. We’ll go to the back room I showed you.”

Matt’s heart beats too fast, but he’s hanging in there. Maybe a two? If he concentrates on the task at hand he thinks he’ll get through.

***

When the guests arrive, filling up the tables of the soup kitchen, he needs to find another tactic.

There were a couple of dozen volunteers, but there are hundreds of guests. These are people who need help, he tries to tell himself. They are old and young, men and women, plenty of children and infants are scattered around. Humans. People who need help. They’re not enemies.

He keeps his cane in his hoodie pocket most of the time, sticking close to Steve’s side. There are few whispers of Captain America, mostly from the volunteers. No mentions of Daredevil or Murdock. A few whispers of ‘Matt.’ People introducing the new volunteer. ‘He’s painfully shy,’ someone says. ‘Hence the support dog. Steve said to give him space. And hopefully he’ll come again. God knows we can use all the volunteers we can get.’

He’s with Steve, handing out cutlery and making small talk with the guests. It’s amazing how many of them Steve knows by name.

If he’s quick he can place the cutlery on people’s trays before they reach for them. That way he doesn’t need to have any physical contact. One of the women beside him laughs and tells him that she doesn’t know why she’s here. He’s quick enough to do this job for all of them.

Matt smiles hesitantly. It’s a compliment.

These are people who need help. Which is why he pauses after tossing two sets of cutlery to make them land on two trays at the same time. Tilts his head. Pacing feet outside the building. They’ve been out there a while. He tugs on Steve’s sleeve.

The man’s warmth bends until his head is in easy reach. Matt finds Steve’s shoulder, follows it until he finds where Steve’s ear should be. It’s difficult to whisper. He’s never sure if he’s being too loud or too quiet. “There’s a man outside, and his stomach is rumbling. Maybe he’s too scared to come in?”

“Where outside?”

Matt points toward the alley, on the other side of the wall of the building and the crowd of people inside it.

“Would you like to take some food to him?”

It’s a frightening question. What if the man doesn’t want help and he gets mad? What if it’s a trap and he’s there to drag Matt away somewhere like Wright was going to? What if he recognises Matt?

The thoughts make him remember something that he’d forgotten in the schedule of concrete tasks with Steve by his side. People are dangerous. He’s surrounded by people. But these are - are they dangerous? How is he supposed to know?

Steve’s hands rest on his shoulders, heavy and reassuring. “Would you like Bruce to check on him?”

It’s hard to speak when his throat gets tight. “Hulk is - is difficult to kidnap.” And people don’t view Bruce the same way as they do Matt. Bruce isn’t a victim. They won’t want to hurt him like people want to hurt Matt.

“Do you think he wants to kidnap anyone?”

How is Matt supposed to know that? He didn’t think Fisk was going to send him away like he did. He didn’t think there were so many people who would want to buy him and hurt him. He knew the world was dangerous now, but not that it was that dangerous.

“Bruce is going to check on him,” Steve says softly. “He has one of Tony’s scanners on him. It’ll be able to tell him if the man has any weapons. Do you think you could listen and tell me what happens?”

He can do that. He squares his shoulders as Steve uses his phone to pass on the message. Listens carefully as Bruce’s footsteps walk outside the building, while Steve goes back to passing out cutlery as if there isn’t anything to worry about.

And nothing happens…

The man is hungry but doesn’t want to come in. He says he’s never used one of these places before and he’s not one for crowds. Bruce comes back in, gets some food, then goes outside to eat a meal with the man. They talk about the economic climate, poor pay, how his boss is cutting his hours, movies, baseball. And nothing happens.

“Your boy OK?” One of the people collecting cutlery asks.

“He’s doing fine,” Steve answers for him. Then his voice lowers. His warmth presses to Matt’s side. “Matt?”

Matt nods, taking his attention away from Bruce to focus on a girl across the room who is asking her mother if they can get the sparkily pink coat in the donations pile. The mother gives a non answer, sounding flustered. Embarrassed? At having to ask for something from the pile? Maybe Matt can help with that?

***

“Albert Jones won first prize in a spelling bee when he was eight years old. Decent grades. Bad neighbourhood. Bad family. My guess is he started taking around twelve. That’s when his grades started to slip.” Jessica sits on the other end of the day bed in the gym. “Charged with possession at thirteen. From that point on he spends his life setting records for the amount of time one man can be charged with drug related offences without serving jail time. A couple of court enforced stints in rehab. None of them long.”

These sessions are difficult. Listening to facts Jessica digs up about the people who hurt him. It’s supposed to make them feel more human, and less like monsters. And maybe it’s starting to work. He still has nightmares, but he has less of the ones where he dreams he wakes up and goes about his day, then Albert Jones or Adam Thomas pounce out at him.

“Here.” Soft sound as Jessica tosses something small between them. It smells musty. “I borrowed it from Adam Thomas’s childhood bedroom. His mother informed Jan Parsec of the Daily Bugle that they were inseparable until Thomas grew his first facial hair.”

His fingers flinch away at first, before they manage to close around the soft. It’s too rough. Ratty and bald in places. His skin doesn’t like the feel, but he traces it until an image forms in his mind. A dog. It’s odd to think that Adam Thomas was someone who held this toy for long enough to rub bald patches in its fur and make its stuffing droop. Did he name it like Matt named Honey or Foggy named Chewie?

“Adam Thomas came from a decent family. Single mother, grandmother, both hard working with no criminal records. His mother blames herself. She says she and her mother worked several jobs to keep things together. Thinks that’s why he was always falling in with the wrong crowds. Self blaming idiot. Plenty of latch key kids in this world. Doesn’t excuse what he did.”

“He made the choice,” Matt says, the words coming automatically. “He made an informed decision, not just to hurt me, but to hurt people before me too. He’s the one who decided to rape people.”

“Exactly.” Anger enters Jessica’s voice. “These assholes will use every excuse they can to say it’s not their fault. Sure, you can argue about parenting, and society, and all that other stuff. But you choose to put your dick in another person’s private parts, that’s not an accident, or a lapse in judgement. It’s a choice.”

Matt shifts on his side of the day bed, placing the ratty toy down. Jessica’s been through things too. Mind controlled. She mentioned once that was how the man raped her. How would it feel to be so strong, and still be able to be overpowered? Did she lose part of her identity too, like Fiona says Matt did? “Can I ask… what happened to the man who hurt you?”

Jessica’s heart-rate picks up. Tension fills the gym. This isn’t something they talk about often. Sound of her swallowing. “I broke his neck. Killed him.”

Jarvis read him a news story a while ago, about Jessica killing a meta human. There weren’t many facts. It was suggested he’d killed people, but not how he’d done that. He takes a deep breath. There’s a tap tap of Lucky’s tail as the dog stirs beside the day bed, checking on him. “You’re really strong. I could never do that.”

“Cut the bullshit Murdock,” the anger deepens, turning Jessica’s voice into a growl. “It’s nothing to do with strength.”

Matt wants to cringe away at the anger, or change the subject. But this is amazing. A long time ago when they were hurting him, he half remembers wanting to kill them so they’d stop. He doesn’t like remembering feeling that way in case someone (Old Spice) knows what he’s thinking. Intellectually he knows Dennis Short can’t do that, but it feels like he could. “How did you - I can’t be in the same room as them without my brain freezing. And the people on the forums have the same kind of problems. How did you do it?”

It’s like a fairy tale. Victim becomes hero. A story he’d overheard discussed in casual conversation enough to know it’s commonplace in media. It’s expected. He remembers a snatch of conversation years ago. A girl being outraged because she’d watched a show where a woman was raped. ‘I was all geared up for her punching him in the crotch. Getting her own back. Instead she turned into a helpless victim and got her boyfriend to do it for her.’

He’s under no illusions where he falls on the scale of hero to helpless victim.

The day bed squeals across the wooden floors of the gym as Jessica pushes off it. He steadies himself instinctively, but the movement still jerks him sideways. “You think I wanted that? You think I wanted it to end like that? I wanted him alive Murdock. I wanted him to tell everyone that those things he made me do were on him. That I wasn’t to blame. Killing him was just another way that he won.”

He hunches his shoulders. Lucky pushes his head into his hands. The thing is, he’s not sure if he’d want to kill them, even if his brain wasn’t too scared to want to. The idea of killing was something he agonised over. It didn’t seem right to decide to take a life, any life. He’s not sure where he stands on that now. He’s not sure enough about who he is now to know what any of his beliefs are. And how can he say what is right or wrong when so many of the things he took for granted as true turned out to be false?

But the thought of being someone who could fight back. Someone who people like Dennis Short and Lawrence Rowe would run in fear of. It’s as exhilarating as it is terrifying.

“Things between you and me need to be real, OK?” Less anger in Jessica’s voice. “You may look at everyone else like they hung the sun and freaking moon, but I don’t want that. So keep your hero worship for stars and stripes and blabbermouth and his pops. You don’t know what I went through, so don’t turn me into some idol.”

She’s right. He doesn’t know what she went through. “Sorry.”

Jessica groans. “Stop looking at me like that Murdock. Take it easy, OK. Breathe.”

He takes slow steady breaths. His mind swims with thoughts about how much she must hate him. Mind reading. Thinking he knows what she’s thinking. It’s best to ask. “You don’t hate me, right?”

“You’re annoying sometimes.” Soft sound of Jessica perching back on the day bed. Not much change to her voice, not like how the others act when he’s upset, but her movements slow and gentle. “But hate is a strong word. I don’t hate you Murdock. You know who I do hate?”

Matt’s mouth twitches into a nervous smile. The phrase signals the start of a game that is equal parts scary and energising. “The assholes.”

Thump of Jessica leaning back on the day bed, and just like that the tension between them is gone. “A chimpanzee could come up with better plans than Dumb Captain Darius.”

Fiona reminds him that he’s allowed to say negative things about the people who hurt him. Steve, Bucky, and Foggy do their best to remind him too. But not even Foggy is as good at insulting them as Jessica is. “Bubble- Justin Fletcher. He’s not smart. He hurt people like Maria Pearson. And he didn’t stop to recognise they would be hurt. He didn’t care enough to wonder what they would do after he hurt them.”

Fletcher didn’t wonder what their lives would be like. How what he did could tear them apart. He didn’t stop to think whether any of them would try to press charges. Didn’t he wonder why none of them came forward? There must’ve been more other than Pearson.

“Justin Fletcher was a rich pompous asshole,” Jessica says firmly. “A spoilt brat used to breaking his toys and being rewarded with shiny new ones. Someone who thought being recruited by a psychopath meant he’d reached the height of coolness. I wish you’d bitten off more than his thumb.”

It’s painful to remember Old Spice’s fingers digging into his cheeks. He curls to his side to concentrate on smoothing Lucky’s head.

“Adam Thomas was spineless. A hanger on. No personality of his own. Black Widow thinks he would’ve taken to anything the right authority figure shoved into his lap. And he had to meet Lawrence Rowe.”

This is where he’s supposed to say something, but his mouth is dry.

Shifting of Jessica turning her head against the day bed. “They won’t hear you Murdock.”

“I know.” For a moment he covers his ear with his arm. Tries to pretend the world consists only of himself and Lucky. This is impossible. Fear rises over exhilaration, washing it away. He can’t do this with thoughts of Old Spice and Baseball Bat in his head. “I’m sorry. Please. _Please_ can’t you tell me why you’re not scared?”

Silence full of Jessica’s heart racing. “I was always scared Murdock. I just got used to grounding myself, I got used to functioning full of fear. I had people supporting me. And the whiskey helped, but don’t tell Stark that last part. He’ll kick me out for being a bad influence.”

Jessica scared. It’s wrong. “What makes you feel safe?”

There’s a pause long enough that he wonders if she’s going to say nothing. That she never feels safe. And maybe that would be true. Or maybe it would be like Matt, who forgets those brief safe moments when he feels unsafe. “Trish, Luke, punching the crap out of something, drinking enough that I forget why I should be scared.”

Keeping a hand on the dog’s head, Matt sits up slowly. There’s an openness to Jessica’s voice. It feels like he’s witness to something rare. “Tony keeps most of the alcohol in the penthouse now, even though I’m off the sedatives enough that I can drink sometimes. I can ask if you want? But I think Sam would say that alcohol isn’t a good coping mechanism. He said it might work short term, but long term it acts as a depressant.”

“I’ll stick to the advice of my shrink thanks.”

Matt frowns. “Do you have a therapist?”

“My shrink comes in a bottle. His name is kentucky bourbon.”

“I can get you a therapist if you want one.”

“Fuck no.”

He wriggles his toes, trying to remember the things the others told him. “I can be here for you as a friend. But I can’t help you if you don’t want to be helped.”

Jessica groans. “Shut the hell up Dr Phil. Just practice your insults Murdock. You’re too goddamn nice.”

It’s difficult. He keeps remembering the enthusiasm in Skittles voice when he hurt him. His insides feel shaky, as much from the task as the conflict with Jessica. But Jessica doesn’t hate him. He can try to do this. “Toothless is way better than that,” he says, poking the ragged dog.

Another long pause. Shifting of Jessica’s hair against the day bed as she looks in his direction. “Seriously?”

What? What was wrong with that?

“You could insult his breath, or his dick size, or the fact that he is a shitty person. Instead you say that your toy is better than his?”

Toothless is better than the ragged dog, but now she’s saying it, it does sound childish. Nat says it doesn’t matter. That they want to hear what he thinks, no matter how he says it. But if he sounds that bad, maybe he shouldn’t speak at all.

“This is part of your messed up shit, right?”

Matt doesn’t raise his head. “I’m sorry.”

Sudden movement as she sits up. “Shit Murdock. If I’m being a dick, just goddamn say it. Stand up for yourself.”

How can he when he’s always wrong? “It happens when I’m scared, or when I can’t concentrate, or after someone shouts at me. And most of the time I don’t notice. I’m not trying to act the wrong way. I just can’t think of the right way. And Fiona says that’s fine. She says it’s more important for me to focus on communicating because if people don’t know what’s going on in my head, then they can’t help me.”

“OK. OK.” She takes a deep breath. “I can deal with that. Just don’t ask me to join in any tea parties with your stuffed animals.”

Matt frowns. “I only have Toothless and he doesn’t have tea parties. And he’s not a stuffed animal. He’s a dragon.”

“I’m guessing that somehow makes sense in your loony toons head.”

“I only need him at night,” Matt says. “And sometimes when I’m sick. He has Foggy’s heartbeat.”

“And he’s better than Thomas’s toy?”

A million times better. “He has Foggy’s heartbeat, and Candy gave him to me.”

“Well it’s half an insult.” Leather moving as Jessica shrugs. “Does this mean we should be aiming to call the others doodoo heads and poop brains?”

“Jessica,” Matt says calmly. “You’re being a dick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible trigger warnings for this chap =
> 
> Usual dissociations, strong emotions, warped view that is Matt's mind. Some speech patterns that may or may not be caused by age regression. Mourning a parent. Very minor mentioned character who hallucinated a baby crying after an abortion. Mention of Stick. Mentions of drug use of a minor. Discussions of the rapists.

**Author's Note:**

> Fanart inspired by this fic: By guardianstar:
> 
> http://shiro-no-okami.deviantart.com/art/Matt-and-Bucky-596422287?ga_submit_new=10%253A1457896600
> 
> By HalfAsleepWriter:
> 
> http://art-half-asleep-writer.tumblr.com/post/156533187530/fanart-for-a-fanfiction-ive-been-reading-for-a
> 
> Hey guys, this fic is complete at 76 chapters. They'll take a while to edit, but I'll post them when I can.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Matt and Lucky [Fanart]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6405148) by [Jato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jato/pseuds/Jato)




End file.
